


Danse Bacchanale: A Tale of Passion and Music

by CommanderCryptic



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Orchestra, Attempt at Humor, Classical Music, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Music, Mutual Pining, Platonic Female/Male Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:55:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 33,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27403894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommanderCryptic/pseuds/CommanderCryptic
Summary: Roderich Edelstein has recently moved to Paris. His relationship with his wife is crumbling, as well as his hopes to continue pursuing a career in music.Until one night, he meets a bushy-eyebrowed bartender and a white-haired man, not knowing that these interactions would be life-changing.A tale of Passion and Music is in the making.
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia), Austria/Hungary (Hetalia), Austria/Prussia (Hetalia), Germany/North Italy (Hetalia), Hungary & Prussia (Hetalia), South Italy/Spain (Hetalia)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 34





	1. Overture - Disarray

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! So, if you've read my other works, you might have already heard that I've been working on something else for a while. Well, here it is! It's not complete yet, and I like to publish chapters in larger chunks rather than individually, so they might not come very quickly. Also, an important thing: this story is inspired by Danse Bacchanale, a piece written by the French composer Camille Saint-Saëns. It's beautiful and whimsical, and I highly advise that you give it a listen! When a chapter mentions a different piece of music (for example in this one, Waltz in A minor) I provide links so you can listen and understand it a little better.  
> Another thing: The Paris Philharmonic is an actual Orchestra in France. Please acknowledge that the Paris Philharmonic that I chose to include in this story is fictional and has absolutely nothing to do with its real counterpart.  
> So, without further ado, let's begin.

**Chopin's Waltz in A minor -**

<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=28aMqUBJww4>

* * *

Roderich had not planned on spending his Friday night at a rundown bar on the outskirts of town. Nevertheless, there he was, with nobody but a disgruntled bartender with absurdly bushy eyebrows and a glass of Scotch to keep him company.

The man idly drummed his fingers on the countertop's surface, but immediately pulled his hand away once he realized how sticky it was. Suddenly, Roderich wished with all his heart that he was sitting behind his beloved Bösendorfer Piano instead of being slouched atop a rickety wooden barstool.

"Rough night?"

Roderich swiveled his head around, only just then noticing that the bartender was actually talking to him. "Ah, I suppose you could say that," he said, not quite in the mood for spilling his entire life story to a stranger.

The bartender nodded and brushed a few golden-blonde strands away from his eyes. "Figured as much. You're not even trying to seem happy."

Roderich took notice of the small nametag near the bartender's right breast pocket. _Arthur._ "Does it really appear that way?"

Arthur nodded and put away a couple of empty bottles piling up nearby. "Bad breakup?"

Roderich froze. The half-empty glass felt heavy in his hands, its cool surface hard under his palm. Everything was silent for a few moments before Arthur cleared his throat.

"Oh, my apologies. I wasn't aware that was a sensitive topic," the Brit said earnestly.

Roderich shook his head, trying to swallow down the large lump forming in his throat. "No, no, it's fine. Although, I presume talking to somebody else about it might not be the worst idea."

Arthur placed the last of a row of clean wine glasses back in its original spot. "I concur with that. So, then, what's been on your mind?"

Roderich bit his lip. Was this really appropriate? He wasn't typically one to converse with strangers on a whim, or do _anything_ on a whim for that matter. But tonight… he was desperately in need for a conversation partner. Writing in a journal simply would not suffice. "My wife and I got into an argument. We just moved to Paris about two weeks ago. She…" A familiar craving washed over him. No—more like an aching. The longing desire to feel the smooth keys of his piano, to feel melody flow through his veins and the music pulsing with every heartbeat. Music was his life, perhaps even more than that. The thing that kept him bound to his very existence.

And a beautiful thing, at that.

"She was upset with me. She claimed that I didn't love her anymore and how I cherished my piano more than her."

Arthur nodded sympathetically, eyebrows drawn together pensively. "So it was a relationship issue. Sorry, lad, I'm not a therapist." Arthur dusted off the front of his shirt and folded his hands together. A spark of recognition flashed through emerald-coloured eyes. "Piano, you said?"

Roderich was slightly confused, but nodded in affirmation. "Yes. I'm a musician."

Arthur chuckled softly. "You seemed like the type. Polished and somewhat stuck-up, with worn-out fingertips."

Somehow, Roderich didn't get offended at the comment as he normally would. Instead, he brought his left hand up, the yellow-tinted lighting from above illuminating his calloused fingers. "Indeed. I was in a Chamber Orchestra back in Vienna, the violin section. Leaving it was… difficult."

"You play the violin? Well, then… I think I know something that could make you feel at least a little bit better," Arthur said.

Roderich raised his eyebrows. "Do tell. Really, any sort of closure right now would be nice."

He didn't intend to come off as desperate as he seemed.

Arthur gestured to the room with an open palm. "I'm not from here, too. I grew up in London, but," He laughed a little. "The accent probably gives it away. But anyway, the frogs around here can be the most unpleasant and much too lecherous for their own good, but Paris is wonderful for musicians. And I just so happened to know someone from the Philharmonic Orchestra nearby." Arthur narrowed his comically defined eyebrows and frowned. "But he is _certainly not_ my friend. So please do not assume that."

Now, Roderich was interested. He had almost completely forgotten about his little (or rather big) predicament with Elizaveta. "Oh?"

"Francis Bonnefoy, if you were wondering. One of the Patrons. I reckon that they're in need of somebody to lead the violin section. You seem like you would fit the bill well enough," Arthur explained.

Roderich felt a burst of dopamine travel through his mind. He hadn't intended upon joining another Orchestra in Paris, being too convinced that nothing would be quite the same as the one back in Austria. But as it appeared, all hope wasn't lost.

He yearned to hear the smooth, melodious, voice of an Orchestra once again. Even more than that, he wished to be a part of it all. Playing with the group gave him a sense of belonging; security that he simply couldn't find in money or romance or power.

"Yes."

The word left his mouth without a second thought. He _wanted_ this. He wanted to play, feel the same rush of excitement and anxiety and familiarity that came with performing in front of an audience.

Arthur looked at him curiously. "Odd. Thought it'd take a little more convincing on my part." He briefly disappeared into another room further back before returning with a small notepad and ballpoint pen textured with bite-marks. He scribbled down something on the notepad and ripped the small memo off, handing it to Roderich in a quick motion. "That's the address. It's massive, that place. I'm sure you'll know it when you see it."

Roderich folded the note into quarters and then tucked it away in his pocket. "I see. Is there a number that I could contact? If that's not too much trouble, of course."

Arthur shook his head. "Don't have one, sorry. I don't think a number will do you much good anyway, everytime you call, it almost always goes straight to voicemail. Also, I might add that their auditioning process isn't quite as you'd expect."

"I see." He downed the rest of his Scotch (which had gotten down to room temperature) and slid the glass over. He made eye contact with the Brit and smiled gratefully, for the first time in what felt like years. "Arthur?"

The blonde man looked up from the counter. "Yes?"

"Thank you. This opportunity—I will not let it go to waste." Roderich reached into his wallet and pulled out 50 euros, which he handed to the green-eyed bartender willingly. He had never really been one to throw around his money, especially when he didn't need to. But tonight, in this out-of-the-way bar on the outskirts of Paris, he really didn't mind.

Arthur stared at the money for a few seconds before accepting it graciously. "Blimey. I, uh, suppose I should thank you too."

Roderich shook his head insistently. "No need." He pushed back the cuff of his slightly-crumpled dress shirt, revealing a perfectly polished IWC Schaffhausen which was gifted to him at his wedding so many years ago. It was nearly the bottom of the hour. Roderich felt panic rise in his chest. Walking the streets of Paris at night sounded quite romantic, but he was more than a little wary of doing it alone. Delinquents, criminals, murderers, and god-knows-who-else could be roaming the area.

Roderich wasn't a very intimidating man. He was delicate, to say the least. Defending himself proved difficult time and time again, and even running away from danger wasn't the easiest task. His lungs seemed to find even the slightest bit of physical exertion a difficult endeavor.

Nevertheless, he still needed to get back home. To his piano and his music.

And his angry wife.

A bitter, cold, feeling wrapped its claws around Roderich's heart. He had left the house to cool himself down and figure out what to say next to patch things up with Elizaveta, but it appeared as though not a single ounce of consideration was made towards the effort.

Across the bar, Roderich noticed there was somebody else. How had he not noticed the other man's presence until then, he wondered.

The man had pale skin, and white hair that looked far too snow-like to be natural. His crimson-red eyes were focused on Roderich, yet he refused to approach him.

_How strange. I should get going now, before it gets even later._

"Uh, lad? You look like you've seen a ghost," Arthur commented.

_Might as well have, with that man's blanched complexion._

The remark brought Roderich out of his inquisitive reverie. He immediately blinked a couple times, as if it would help rid himself of the thought of the albino in the corner of the room.

It didn't.

His presence was almost overbearing, in a way that Roderich wasn't so sure he liked or disliked.

"Is that so? Well, I'll be off, then," Roderich said quickly, offering the Brit a small nod in departure.

Arthur waved. "Have a nice night. And," He smiled knowingly. "Good luck."

Roderich crossed the room, almost nearing the entrance. He stopped right in front of the door, seeing the strange man was approaching him.

The albino's gait was confident, bordering on arrogant. His gaze—a mysterious one, one that Roderich wouldn't bother trying to read.

Roderich pulled his lips together and felt his muscles stiffen as the man drew closer. He kept telling himself there was absolutely nothing to worry about.

_We're not alone. Arthur is right there, and lest anything happens, he can call the authorities._

Still, his heart refused to cease its beating.

Roderich felt the blood rush to his skull as the man leaned in, positioning his lips millimeters away from his ear to whisper something nearly inaudible:

"You don't need luck."

Before Roderich could offer a curt response or even acknowledgment of the claim, the man was gone. He disappeared through the doorway, his figure fading away gradually into the chilly night.

* * *

"Where were you?" Elizaveta stood at the doorway of the house, both hands placed on her hips. Her face was flushed, with her brilliant green eyes rimmed with red. She had been crying. Crying and yelling. Yelling at Roderich, for how little regard he put towards her. Yelling at herself, forever thinking she could build a strong and healthy relationship with the Austrian man.

Apparently, her sorrows did not leave when Roderich did.

"I went out, Elizaveta," answered Roderich as cooly as possible. Really, it hurt him to see his wife in such a state. Especially knowing that it was his fault. But after every argument… he couldn't seem to bring himself to feel guilty for more than just a couple of hours.

"Out? Out _where_? Roddy, you never tell me anything. Would it kill you to just talk with me?" Her voice began to grow louder and higher, an indication that an argument would follow.

Apparently, the falling-out they'd had some time earlier wasn't quite enough.

"Please, Elizaveta. I just need some space right now. We both do," he offered weakly. Roderich knew that eventually, this would all blow over once again. That's how it always was.

They would fight. They would brood. They would ignore each other for some time, whether it be just a few days or weeks.

Finally, someone would apologize. Usually, it was Roderich, with a bouquet of Orchids in his left hand and a half-hearted apology letter in his right. Then, they would follow this apology with a pleasurable activity under the sheets.

Things would be fine for the next couple of months.

Then, the cycle would repeat all over again.

_So it goes._

Elizaveta huffed and tucked a lock of light brown hair behind one ear. "Fine, then." She turned on her heel and left the foyer, leaving the front door for Roderich to close himself.

They had been married for almost a year now. The wedding was a lavish one, almost paid for entirely by his parents, taking place in Corsica (much to Roderich's own protest.)

Roderich looked down at his hands. He wasn't even wearing his wedding ring, as was his custom. The lustrous band of gold tended to get in the way of his instrument-playing, so he had tucked it away somewhere in his bedroom without a second thought.

Suddenly, he could understand why Elizaveta was growing upset with him.

_Perhaps she is right. I don't interact with her much when I don't have to…_

_Some marriage, that is._

Although the only thing he should have really been thinking about at that moment was Elizaveta, he couldn't help but allow his mind to wander over to the white-haired man he had met back at the bar.

Technically, they hadn't even formally met. Roderich didn't even know his name.

There wasn't anything else he really knew about the strange man. Roderich could hardly make out much else of his features besides the lack of colour in his hair and skin.

And those eyes. They were bright red, like glimmering rubies.

_Surely they must be contact lenses, are they not?_

Roderich mentally kicked himself. Why did he pay so much attention to a random person he saw at a bar once? He would _surely_ never be seeing this man ever again.

Or so he thought.

Disregarding Elizaveta's current state of mind, Roderich decided to go to the parlor where his Bösendorfer sat in all its shiny glory.

Carefully, he slid the cover back, revealing a row of perfectly-polished white keys with black ones wedged in between. It was his pride and joy, that piano. Even if he was in the most crowded room or in front of a large audience, when he closed his eyes and just played, it felt as though nobody else was there but him. Him and the music.

Roderich didn't really think of what he was about to play before he played it. Whatever came to mind first.

_Waltz in A minor._

It was a fairly simple piece, for Chopin, anyway. But, the simplicity of it all highlighted its dark and gloomy melody.

The sad piece seemed to reflect how Roderich was feeling, almost perfectly. _Almost._ He wasn't too bothered by the argument with Elizaveta. Instead, he was somewhat hopeful.

There was still an opportunity waiting for him, and it was on a piece of paper, folded into quarters.

_Elizaveta won't be too happy if she finds out._

Roderich felt like a small child under the custody of his own wife, constantly being told what he should and shouldn't do. It left a sour taste in his mouth.

_I am my own person. I should be able to do what I want. Music makes me happy, she just doesn't understand that._

A sinking feeling took root in his stomach.

 _But when_ _**will** _ _she understand? She doesn't even make a single attempt, and every attempt I make to please her is just like another stab in the dark._

Roderich thought their relationship would smooth over once they finally got married.

It didn't.

Instead, it seemed to be getting worse. Yet, poor Roderich had no idea how he was supposed to salvage it.

 _Waltz in A minor_ was slow. Slower than what he was used to, anyway. 93 beats per measure, but he assumed that the speed was necessary to properly take in the beauty of its melody.

No matter how slow Roderich played, the song would still eventually come to an end. The part that he dreaded the most.

However, deep inside, he knew that this—his music, his passion—didn't have to come to an end.

Roderich felt the crisp edges of the note still safe inside his pocket.

No. This certainly was not the end.

This was only just the beginning.


	2. Overture - The Other Time

Here's some cool, dark-ish, ambient jazz music that I think fits the mood of this part of the story pretty well. 

<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t8MUMHhdUyg>

* * *

Gilbert had not planned on spending Friday evening wandering the streets of Paris alone. Nevertheless, there he was, strolling through a dimly-lit alleyway with nobody else to keep him company besides a couple of thugs puffing cigars and scantily-clad women waiting for a lonely, rich, man to walk past.

Gilbert only fit half of that description. With his disheveled white locks and rumpled leather jacket, he didn't appear as someone with money to throw away on a warm body.

His best friend was too busy at a fancy white-tie party that Gilbert could never even dream of being invited to, while his other best friend was having a "passionate sleepover" with his temperamental Italian boyfriend. Hell, even his younger brother had found somebody—a different Italian boy, this one being much friendlier and talkative than the aforementioned one.

Gilbert was alone. As usual.

The crescent moon hung low in the sky, casting a pale blue glow onto the street below, while stars pricked at the endless stretch of black up above. It would have been beautiful if only Gilbert had someone to enjoy it with.

Heavy footsteps echoed through the alleyway. Gilbert looked back, only to grow even more confused. There was nobody behind him.

_In front, maybe?_

Gilbert turned the corner and looked ahead. His suspicions were correct; there was a man approaching the small bar ahead. Gilbert's vision wasn't the greatest, (his younger brother had advised that he get glasses, but he refused, claiming they were too un-awesome) so the man looked like a blob from where he was standing.

Something inside of him told him to follow the man. Gilbert wasn't being a stalker or anything, he was just curious. Curious and tear-jerkingly lonely, but he really didn't like to admit that.

GIlbert felt a gold gust of wind breeze by. He gripped the handle of his case tightly, almost in a protective manner. His flute was something incredibly important, gifted to him by his old Flute instructor Fritz almost a decade back.

It had been approximately 6 months since he had joined the Paris Philharmonic Orchestra. The conductor had seen great potential in Gilbert's playing, and by a stroke of luck, he ended up in First Chair.

Practice had run quite late, that night. Gilbert had only gotten back from the Concert Hall at around 10:05, even though Mr. Vargas had promised that they wouldn't go any later than 9:30. They were having a rather difficult time trying to make adjustments to the violin parts, as there wasn't anybody in the section that was capable enough to lead. Gilbert (as well as the other members of the Woodwind, Brass, and Percussion sections) became quickly irritated with how little progress was being made. Mr. Vargas had been on edge for the last couple of days, as a concert was to be held at the end of the month, around the week of Thanksgiving.

Gilbert took slow, hesitant steps towards the direction the other man went. Was this really a good idea? What if the Milieu was meeting in that bar?

Suspicions clouded his mind like a thick fog, with each one being more unrealistic than the last. What a sane person would do in the moment would be to follow their better judgment and leave. However, Gilbert wasn't necessarily a sane person.

So he kept going.

Gilbert stopped right in front of a set of double doors. The sign at the top read _The Forest Alcove._ He'd never heard of it before, but trying new things wouldn't hurt. After all, so long as the place served beer, he'd be satisfied.

The door opened without any sort of audible indication, as Gilbert expected. Not even the quietest little _creak_. Even the odd-looking bartender didn't notice his entrance.

Gilbert spared a glance at the small menu on the far right wall. They had liquor. Lots and lots of liquor. Most other places in France were loaded with all kinds of fancy wines. So far, Gilbert had tried Chardonnay, Pinot Noir, Rosé, and Cabernet Sauvignon, in his time in Paris. While they were all enjoyable, (and ridiculously expensive) none of them could rival a good beer.

Much to Gilbert's displeasure, _The Forest Alcove_ did not have beer. He wasn't quite ready to settle for anything else, so he decided to lay off on the alcohol for the night.

The other man called for the bartender.

"Scotch, please," the other man said. His accent had undertones like Gilbert's, but still sounded so different. He spoke with a proud, dignified, tone. Almost aristocratic.

His appearance mimicked his voice, too. While the clothes he wore could easily be classified as nothing more than just business casual, there was something else about him that radiated elegance.

His presence was obvious and prideful, in a way that Gilbert wasn't so sure he liked or disliked.

The man was not facing him, so Gilbert couldn't read his features. But what he could see was that the man had dark brown hair, like chocolate. One strand stuck up in an almost comical way, stiff and drenched in product.

"Sure." The bartender began pouring a glass for the other man then pushing the golden liquid towards him.

5 or so minutes passed. The brown-haired man took a few sips of his drink, looking uncomfortable and out of place. The bartender, under the assumption that he had no more customers, leaned against the back wall and tapped his foot impatiently, green eyes drifting to the clock in the corner of the room every so often.

The blonde decided to finally break the silence. "Rough night?"

The other man turned in the bartender's direction, unintentionally revealing his face to Gilbert as well.

_Mein Gott._

He was gorgeous. Not cute like Feliciano or hot like Lovino. _Gorgeous._ In a way that was somewhat feminine, but endearing nonetheless. Violet eyes sparkled with conflict, bright against smooth skin. There was also a small beauty mark dotting his chin.

"Ah, I suppose you could say that."

"Figured as much. You're not even trying to seem happy." The crisp, British accent reminded Gilbert of somebody else he knew, but he couldn't quite tell exactly who.

"Does it really appear that way?"

Gilbert made it a goal to listen in on the conversation. Or, eavesdrop, as some might say.

"Bad breakup?"

The brunette—Gilbert could finally pinpoint his accent as Austrian—looked as though he had just been slapped in the face. He parted his lips to say something, then shut them again.

"Oh, my apologies. I wasn't aware that was a sensitive topic."

"No, no, it's fine. Although, I presume talking to somebody else about it might not be the worst idea."

Gilbert wished that he could walk right up to the Austrian and say: "Hey, there! You can talk to me! Plus, I think you're a solid ten and maybe if you could come home with me that'd be awesome!"

He didn't. The words sounded so ridiculously forward in his head, who knew how they'd be perceived when expressed out loud?

"I concur with that. So, then, what's been on your mind?"

"My wife and I got into an argument. We just moved to Paris about two weeks ago. She…she was upset with me. She claimed that I didn't love her anymore and how I cherished my piano more than her."

Gilbert was all of a sudden glad that he didn't say what he was thinking out loud. This man—this gorgeous, Austrian, piano-loving, man was _married._

It shouldn't have surprised him, really. Obviously, somebody like that would be a lady-magnet. Gilbert himself was familiar with the feeling, too. Unfortunately for them, he didn't swing their way.

_He's a pianist. Must be the creative type._

"So it was a relationship issue. Sorry, lad, I'm not a therapist." The bartender thought for a moment. "Piano, you said?"

"Yes. I'm a musician."

"You seemed like the type. Polished and somewhat stuck-up, with worn-out fingertips."

Gilbert whole-heartedly agreed with the bartender's analysis of the pianist, though he did not choose to articulate this opinion.

"Indeed. I was in a Chamber Orchestra back in Vienna, the violin section. Leaving it was… difficult."

_Vienna, huh? So he really is Austrian. And probably a wealthy one, too._

"You play the violin? Well, then… I think I know something that could make you feel at least a little bit better."

"Do tell. Really, any sort of closure right now would be nice."

Gilbert clenched his fist tighter. _I can give you closure! You don't need your stupid wife, let's leave this place together!_

What was he thinking? Gilbert didn't even know this man.

But what he did know is that he wanted that musician. Every last piece of him.

"...And I just so happened to know someone from the Philharmonic Orchestra nearby."

If he was drinking anything, Gilbert would have spit it out.

Finally, he recognized who the bartender was. Arthur Kirkland, an acquaintance of a certain flamboyant French man (although he claimed they were sworn enemies.)

_No. He can't be talking about the Paris Philharmonic… the one I'm in… no way…_

"Oh?"

"Francis Bonnefoy, if you were wondering. One of the Patrons. I reckon that they're in need of somebody to lead the violin section. You seem like you would fit the bill well enough."

Gilbert knew exactly where that brunette would fit best. Right in his arms, naturally. But it seemed like there was a glimmer of hope that the fantasy wasn't too far-fetched.

"Yes." The other man's response was nearly breathless. He sounded so eager to find a new outlet in a new city, a city that he thought he didn't have any business in. It was almost as though he was responding to a marriage proposal or other life-changing question.

"Odd. Thought it'd take a little more convincing on my part."

Gilbert felt as though his heart would explode right through his chest with how fast it was beating.

_This is really happening. He's going to join the Paris Philharmonic._

_I need to make a move sooner or later._

Arthur handed the brunette a small piece of paper, which was promptly folded up and placed in his pocket.

"I see. Is there a number that I could contact? If that's not too much trouble, of course."

_Mine. Would that be too forward?_

Gilbert could think of about 1000 different lines he could use on the Austrian that would sound incredibly smooth. But he had a nagging feeling that this man wasn't one to appreciate things like that. So he kept his mouth shut.

"Don't have one, sorry. I don't think a number will do you much good anyway, everytime you call, it almost always goes straight to voicemail. Also, I might add that their auditioning process isn't quite as you'd expect."

Another statement Gilbert could agree with. He could also speak from experience.

He'd left Berlin for Paris about a year back. Thought he could make it big, but ended up on the streets pretty quick.

Until he met Francis, that was.

Gilbert had stayed at the Frenchman's opulent mansion for a couple of weeks, and one day decided to serenade his little golden bird with his flute.

Francis was impressed by his musical ability and notified Mr. Vargas. The rest was history.

There was no "real" audition for the Paris Philharmonic Orchestra, as far as Gilbert knew. He had heard similar stories to his from the other members, too.

Vladimir Popescu was a part-time street musician in Romania who could barely make ends meet before he left for France. Now, he was one of the best Violists in Paris.

Lili Zwingli played the Clarinet for 4 years in high school, thinking that was where her talent lay. It wasn't. The moment she picked up a French Horn, it was obvious that her career in the music world from then on would be a smooth and opportune one.

"I see." The man emptied his glass and smiled. He actually _smiled._ It was just a small and quick upturning of the lips.

But Gilbert thought it looked absolutely precious.

The brunette took out some notes and handed them to Arthur, who looked at the money in disbelief. Gilbert assumed it must have been significantly more than what was necessary to pay.

After another exchange that frankly wasn't too interesting in Gilbert's opinion, the man got up from his seat and started towards the door.

"Good luck," Arthur said as the customer left.

This was his chance.

Gilbert left his own seat, mirroring the other person's actions. He approached the Austrian, trying his best not to look threatening. Apparently he didn't do a very good job, as the other man looked more than a little anxious.

He then pulled a little move that he had perfected over the years, a move that had been quite successful when it came to seduction.

Gilbert leaned in, close enough to spark interest, but not too close to the point where it would seem invasive. His lips were near the brunette's ear.

"You don't need luck."

And then Gilbert left, returning to the streets once again.

He didn't even bother looking back, as he had quickly learned that the act of doing so after making such a move would seem tacky.

Keeping cool after the matter proved difficult. In the movies, the playboy would always forget all about the pretty little things they picked up while they were out on the town. But Gilbert didn't like to think of himself as just another overeager young adult with better-then-average looks. Perhaps on some level he was, but the moment he first saw this brown-haired, violet-eyed, musician, he knew he wanted to pursue him.

What he _didn't_ know is that it would take a lot more than a little smooth talk to capture the fancy of this particular man.

Gilbert continued walking further down the alley like nothing happened, passing small shops and more somewhat suspicious-looking people. His eyes darted to a lit-up sign advertising another bar, this one called _Verre de pétales de rose._ While the thought of drinking himself into a stupor sounded pleasant, he recalled Mr. Vargas' reminder at the most recent rehearsal.

They were going to be receiving new music at the next practice. Which happened to be the very next day, at 7:30 AM sharp. Gilbert briefly contemplated taking his flute and smacking the conductor upside the head.

The earliest Gilbert could manage to wake up in the morning (with the assistance of coffee) was about 10:00. Anything earlier than that seemed to be out of the question. Waking up 2 hours and 30 minutes earlier than that with the added bonus of a hangover would be several times more difficult. Besides, spending 4 hours surrounded by loud music would just make a headache that much more unbearable.

In addition to that, Ludwig had been getting on his case recently about his excessive intake of alcohol, insisting that if Gilbert continued to go through bottles of beer like water, he'd end up with liver disease before he reached 25.

Gilbert reached into his pocket and brought out his phone. It was nearly dead but still had enough battery to last a quick phone call.

Or so he thought.

He went to his contacts, selecting the second once on the list.

The phone rang once. Twice. Thrice. Finally, a familiar voice graced Gilbert's ears.

"Hello?" Ludwig sounded tired, he was probably sleeping. Before his older brother called, that was.

"Hey, _bruder_! So, I was wondering whether I could get a ride." Gilbert looked at his surroundings. He didn't really recognize them. "I'm pretty lost."

"Ah- Feliciano! Not right now! _Bruder_ , one second—" Gilbert could hear a few muffled shouts in German, and some in Italian. "—sorry about that. Uh, I really don't think it's within my ability to come over there right now, I'm a little… preoccupied... AGH! Feli, put that back! Maybe you should try calling one of your friends, I'm sure they can help you. But, uh, when you come back, please don't come—"

Ludwig's voice cut off. "West? Hello? Are you there?" Gilbert stared at his screen and saw darkness, with his own reflection staring back.

His phone was dead.

Gilbert gritted his teeth together and cursed under his breath. Why did things have to end up this way?

It looked like he would have to find his way home the old-fashioned way.

Eventually, Gilbert did end up back at his apartment building. He didn't exactly know how, but after more than a few wrong turns and some vague, poorly-translated directions from the locals, he had found himself in a familiar area.

He stuck the key into the doorknob and twisted it, letting the door swing open and hit the wall with an obnoxiously loud noise.

"Hey! _Bruder!_ Are you there?" GIlbert waited for any sort of response but didn't receive one. It was odd, really. Where else would his younger brother be? While there _was_ the possibility that Ludwig was sleeping, Gilbert knew that his loud indication upon entering the apartment would be more than enough to wake him up.

Gilbert flipped the light switch right beside the door, bathing the room in a warm, golden, glow. He tossed his jacket onto the couch and entered the hallway.

Ludwig's bedroom door was closed, but a faint crack of light spilling out from underneath revealed that he most likely wasn't asleep.

Gilbert recalled snippets of his phone conversation with Ludwig, in which he had heard him address another person who happened to be in the room with him. Feliciano Vargas.

"The hell is going on in there…" Gilbert slowly took the doorknob in his hands and twisted it in a slow, almost cautious, motion.

He really wished he hadn't bothered checking.

Ludwig was in bed with Feliciano, who wore a strange leather ensemble that Gilbert could describe as being far from innocent-looking.

"Ve~right there, Luddy…" Feliciano cut himself off as soon as he noticed Gilbert's presence, but didn't even look the slightest bit embarrassed."Oh, _Ciao_ , friend!"

Ludwig's facial expression first registered confusion, which quickly morphed into shock. He flushed bright red and scrambled to get off the bed, with only a rumpled sheet that had been hastily thrown aside to cover himself. "Uh, _bruder_! This—this isn't what it looks like!"

Gilbert immediately slammed the door shut once he realized what was going on. The "horizontal tango," if you will, that Feliciano and Ludwig were taking part in was _exactly_ what it looked like. Gilbert felt a small burst of pride for his younger brother. Ludwig had finally found somebody special, somebody to devote his love and attention to.

And he'd receive just as much passion in return.

That same loneliness that had been creeping up at the edges of Gilbert's heart had bit back, this time in full force.

He wanted somebody. Somebody that he could spend the days with. Somebody that he could spend the nights with. A relationship that _meant_ something, not just another quick hookup from Tinder. A relationship that wouldn't end up erupting into a series of arguments and screaming matches and month-long grudges. A relationship with somebody that _understood._

Gilbert had spent the last few years of his life watching from the sidelines, a mere observer as those around him fell in and out of love. It didn't take a genius to know that if it was genuine, true love would prevail. It would last, through thick and thin.

Finding it was much easier said than done. It's not like he could just walk outside, see a good-looking stranger pass by, and just pray for a miracle. Love at first sight was impossible—infatuation, maybe, but love required more than that. Understanding. Maybe even a little misunderstanding. Time. Care. Not just something that would spark on a whim.

GIlbert had tried distracting himself from it, too. He decided to put even more attention towards music and the Orchestra, and it did relieve him a little. However, once he set foot outside the Concert Hall, it all seemed to fall apart once more.

It's not like Gilbert had much in the way of experience, either. There were only two instances he could really think of. The more recent one was a brief stint back in Senior year of high school, with a shy Canadian boy. Matthew Williams was kind and caring, yet shared little to no similarities with GIlbert besides the common love for pancakes. Gilbert would hardly call it a relationship at all; more like a glorified companionship.

On the first night of the last week of school, they decided they wanted to become "official," and what better place to do that than under the sheets?

It never ended up happening. Gilbert just couldn't bring himself to do it. Things seemed to be moving too quickly, and he simply couldn't handle it. He wanted his first time to be with "the one," as many romance novels liked to say. Matthew completely understood and even admitted to feeling similarly. The two parted ways with an exchange of awkward smiles and contact information.

Gilbert never did end up calling that number. It wasn't like he didn't enjoy Matthew's company, but in the end, it was clear that neither of them was really ready to make such a commitment.

And then there was the other time. It was even less official than the one in high school.

Gilbert was only around 14, in 8th grade. He was still discovering himself and decided to experiment a little with one of the girls in his class. That girl was Elizaveta Hédérvary, who also just so happened to be his childhood friend since birth. The two were very close and shared plenty of memorable moments together, but Gilbert soon realized what his preference was. A few years after graduation, he tried getting back in contact with her. It turned out she had moved to Vienna just a couple of months earlier and got married.

Gilbert entered his own bedroom and shut the door. If he needed to wake up two hours and thirty minutes earlier than usual the next morning, he might as well get some sleep. The task proved very difficult the moment Gilbert rested his head on the pillow.

He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping that it would help. His vision fell away into the darkness, but his mind did not. Thoughts began piling up like fallen leaves, falling at a rapid pace that simply would not slow.

Thoughts about _him_. That Austrian pianist he had seen back at _The Forest Alcove_ , with his gorgeous hair and gorgeous eyes and—

He was also a violinist. A violinist that may or may not join the Paris Philharmonic Orchestra.

_It's not a joke, is it? He might join our Orchestra. In a different section, yeah, but still… there's a chance. Hope. Is this what I needed?_

_No. He's married. He has a goddamn wife, and for all I know, maybe a kid or two. There's no way…_

_No way at all._

That strange feeling of excitement in his bones faded quickly. The small, wistful, smile on Gilbert's lips dropped.

_One can only hope._


	3. Prelude - Nouveau Jour, Nouvelle Vie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New day, new life.

**_Paganini: Caprice No.5_** \- <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t8MUMHhdUyg>

I'm not forcing you to do anything, but listening to the songs I link before the story will really enhance your reading experience, especially when it comes to the later chapters. It's somewhat hard for me to describe a musical piece without being super repetitive, so actually listening to it will give you a better grasp.

* * *

The twilight was quick and painless. Dawn washed over the city of Paris, painting the skies with captivating shades of bronze and blue. The struggles of the night seemed to vanish. A new day had begun, and with a new day came new challenges. New hopes. New _dreams._

Roderich sat at the dining table, a steaming cup of coffee in hand. He felt strangely uneasy that morning, not knowing exactly why. Something odd had come over him.

There was a nagging feeling at the back of his head; a feeling that told him there was _something_ he needed to do. It was nothing mundane like a chore to take care of. This wasn't even a task at all, really—

Then what could it be?

Roderich stared out the window, watching as the sun's bright rays poured flaxen colour onto the streets below. He raised the porcelain mug to his lips and took one sip of the strong liquid. It seemed to burn its way down his throat.

He tried recalling the events of the night before.

There was a fight with Elizaveta. A conversation with a British bartender. A strange, brief interaction with a crimson-eyed man.

There was mention of an orchestra. _The Paris Philharmonic._

_That was it._

Roderich couldn't even begin to think of how he had forgotten such an important thing. Arthur had given him the name of one of the Orchestra's patrons, as well as an address to their concert hall.

If Roderich had downed more than just one glass of Scotch the night before, he would be able to write off his poor memory of the previous events as just a side-effect of the alcohol.

Unfortunately, that was not the case. Roderich wasn't even close to the brink of intoxication that night at _The Forest Alcove._ Was dementia finally setting in?

 _No, how utterly ridiculous._ The notion was so absurd that Roderich found it necessary to scoff at it out loud. _I'm only 23._

There was really not much of a point to continue lamenting on it. The sun had just risen from the horizon, with the clock reading 6:55 AM precisely.

Roderich heard muffled footsteps from the hall, and then the loud, telltale _creak_ of the opening door. Elizaveta shuffled into the kitchen, her hair tossed into a messy bun atop her head.

The bags under her eyes told Roderich that she hadn't gotten much in the way of sleep that night. He hadn't, either.

Elizaveta didn't bother speaking to him, or even acknowledging him. Instead, she grabbed an apple from the small bowl on the kitchen island (which was primarily meant for display purposes) and took a large, loud, bite.

She chewed for a few seconds, swallowed, and looked to her husband expectantly. Unfortunately, Roderich didn't exactly know what he was supposed to say. He liked to think of himself as skilled in reading social cues, but navigating through a woman's thought process (especially that of a woman like Elizaveta) was about a thousand times more difficult.

On top of that, it was far too early to put an immense amount of thought into it. So Roderich decided to remain blissfully ignorant, even if it did mean that Elizaveta would get slightly more annoyed with him.

Roderich looked into his mug. He could almost see his own reflection in the murky, brown, liquid. By the looks of it, his appearance wasn't exactly as pristine as he would have liked.

Meanwhile, Elizaveta kept biting at her apple in a way that somebody who wasn't scared of being smacked with a frying pan would deem "uncouth." Eventually, the fruit was whittled away by her teeth, leaving only the core.

Roderich eyed the apple core inquisitively, with one eyebrow raised. Was this supposed to be some sort of signal? If so, it seemed to be going way over his head.

But there wasn't too much surprise there.

Elizaveta finally decided to break the silence. "So, _Roderich_ ," she began, making it a point to not use his somewhat endearing little nickname. "Where are you headed, this morning?"

Roderich felt his throat dry up. He didn't expect her to break the custom that she would normally follow after a fight. Then, the realization set in.

She was suspicious.

"To town," was his only reply. He figured his response shouldn't be specific enough to be incriminating, but not too vague to the point where it prompted interrogation.

Elizaveta played with the apple core in her hands for some time, swinging the mostly-eaten fruit from side to side by its stem. "Do you plan on searching for a job any time soon?"

Roderich's muscles tensed. He pushed the lukewarm coffee away, not wanting it anymore. Elizaveta's question was very much a valid one. It had been some time since they moved to Paris, and Roderich needed to find work. While Elizaveta's job as a paralegal at a renowned law firm paid well enough to cover expenses, he felt pathetic at the fact that his wife was supporting both of them. Wasn't the husband supposed to be the one taking care of that?

Though in Elizaveta and Roderich's case, gender roles seemed to be thrown out the window.

He didn't want it to be like that, though.

Back in Vienna, Roderich was an incredibly well-known musician, playing at some of the grandest events of the season.

But in Paris, he was a nobody. An _unemployed_ nobody.

_I can be somebody again. If I played my cards right, just maybe…_

Elizaveta cleared her throat, still waiting for his response. "Well?"

Roderich thought for a few more seconds. Could what he was intending to do be considered as a job search?

Perhaps. Maybe by a little bit of a stretch, but he wouldn't necessarily be lying.

"Yes. I will be leaving very soon, actually."

Elizaveta pursed her lips together and scanned Roderich's face for any signs of dishonesty, which were things she was unnerving good at pointing out. She came back empty.

"Alright." The Hungarian woman tossed the apple core into the bin and made her exit without looking back once.

Roderich felt as though a weight had been lifted off his shoulders upon his wife leaving the room. It was like he walked on eggshells when she was around. Eggshells that were growing more and more delicate with every passing argument.

How much longer could they keep going on like this?

Arguing, yelling, fighting. Judging, lying, betraying.

It was as though every little thing he did infuriated her. Roderich knew that Elizaveta meant well, but he was seriously starting to doubt his own resolve to continue further with the relationship.

They had actually been in love with each other, once. Back when they first met. Elizaveta was hopping from job to job, and started working as an MC at a popular concert hall from the middle of December. Roderich happened to be performing at the concert hall that very night.

A feeling of nostalgia washed over him. He remembered everything— the quick glances, the shy accidental touches.

The stolen kiss they shared, right before curtain call.

Roderich still had traces of Elizaveta's maroon lipstick on his own lips when he went out to address the audience.

Roses were thrown. Young women squealed excitedly at the sight of a young man blessed by such good looks and fine talent. Roderich could hardly hear his own thoughts over the thundering applause.

It was easy to fall in love.

But was it possible to fall out of it, too?

Roderich glanced back at the clock. The time was now 7:00 AM. _Punctuality is key, especially when making first impressions,_ he thought as he made his way towards the foyer. The parlor was direct to the right of the entryway, with the Bösendorfer taking up most of its space. There were a couple of sturdy shelves near the piano, all varying in size. Roderich had them custom-made to fit and hold the weight of his instruments perfectly.

On one shelf lay a black violin case, lacking any sort of indication of its contents on the outside.

But Roderich could tell it apart from the others without a single moment of hesitation.

It was his mother's violin that had been passed down to him. He had received it when he was just 6 years old, but it had been far too large back then. Now, it was the perfect size.

The instrument was different in another way, too. It was a left-handed violin.

And it was perfect.

Roderich slid it off the shelf ever so carefully. He briefly contemplated a couple of things.

_This is the first time I've played in some time. Almost one month._

The weeks leading up to his move to Paris were stressful ones, so time for playing his beloved stringed-instrument was nonexistent. Plus, he hadn't even bothered touching it since he arrived in France, for reasons that weren't as clear.

 _Perhaps I should warm-up. Maybe that would_ —

"Roderich?"

Elizaveta was coming.

Roderich shoved the violin back onto the case a little too forcefully. He turned around to face the brown-haired woman.

"I thought you said you were going to look for a job," Elizaveta said, her voice laced with accusation.

Roderich crossed his arms over his chest defensively. "I _am_."

_I should just tell her. Keeping secrets is far too exhausting._

Elizaveta's eyes darted from her husband to the violin, then back again. "Involving that?" She gestured loosely to the instruments.

Roderich met her hard gaze with an equal amount of determination.

"Quite possibly."

Roderich had promptly hailed a taxi and showed the driver the address written on the note. The driver—a blonde, somewhat ditzy, young man that spoke with a Polish accent—apparently didn't know how directions worked. They had taken more wrong turns than Roderich could count. Patience was a virtue, all right. One that Roderich simply did not possess.

Roderich bit the inside of his cheek as the blonde in front of him (who went by Feliks) idly drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.

"Come on, I totally drove somebody to _Château_ just a week ago… I could have sworn that it was just around 6th Street!" Feliks chewed his gum rather aggressively before letting out another tired sigh.

"Right," was all Roderich could manage to say. He had recognized the small bakery outside the car's window; they had passed by the same one at least twice already. It was clear for him to see that they were just driving in circles, but apparently, it wasn't so obvious for Feliks.

There was a small itch in the back of Roderich's mind. Feliks had casually dropped a word—a name in his small, annoyed, rant. _Château_. He assumed the Polish man was referring to the concert hall in which the Paris Philharmonic rehearsed.

 _It's rather interesting,_ Roderich thought to himself. _As far as I know, Château is French for Castle._

Feliks pressed down the pedal, and the car began to move once again. Cloudless blue skies and the tops of a couple of buildings managed to fit into the window's view. It would have actually been quite pleasant of a drive, had Feliks been a little more capable with directions.

" _Gówno_! We're going nowhere!" Feliks all but slammed his face into the steering wheel before making eye contact with Roderich through the rearview mirror. His green, almost catlike eyes were weighted by frustration and apology. "Hey, Rod. I, uh…"

Roderich was annoyed, no doubt. He had a place to be and wanted to be there as early as possible. Still, he couldn't help but take pity on the taxi driver.

"It's fine," Roderich finally replied. He took a look out the window and then resumed eye contact. "You can drop me off here. I will be needing my money back, though."

"Oh my god, thank you! Here you go!" Feliks returned ten euros to the Austrian man easily. "Tolys told me I should've had a little more practice before taking this job. I, like, ignored him, but I'm starting to think he's right."

Roderich nodded stiffly. "Indeed." He didn't bother to press on the subject of Tolys, who he was able to assume was somebody close to Feliks. He moved a hand towards the door and pushed it open with only as much force as was necessary.

Closing the car door behind him, Roderich came to the realization that _he_ didn't exactly know where he was, either. All he had was an address. An address and a violin.

Roderich brought out the note he was given the night before. The paper was creased and wrinkled after multiple occasions of folding and unfolding. Written on it in scratchy but still legible handwriting was _89, Amethyst Road._

 _Asking for directions from some of the locals shouldn't be too bad of an idea, either,_ he thought. Roderich scanned the area around him, looking for any Parisians who seemed sympathetic enough to offer him some assistance.

 _There._ Only about 5 meters ahead of him was a flashy, exuberant-looking young man with shoulder-length blonde hair. He was currently in an animated conversation with another man, this one having brown hair and a lopsided grin.

Mustering up all his confidence, Roderich approached the pair, who seemed much more sociable than much of the others nearby.

"—and honestly, I love _mon petit Angleterre,_ but his tie was absolutely horrendous."

It appeared as though Roderich had caught the tail end of a conversation built mostly upon gossip.

The brunette nodded his head enthusiastically, though it was obvious that he didn't exactly understand what the other man was talking about.

"Excuse me."

The blonde man whipped his head around. "My, you're a pretty one, aren't you! Almost like _un femme_ ," he commented.

Roderich still couldn't completely comprehend what the Frenchman was saying. He had been learning French in preparation for the move to Paris. The knowledge seemed to completely slip from his brain, which made things much more difficult and inconvenient now.

He wasn't stupid.

 _He's comparing me to a woman!_ A light dusting of pink made its way onto Roderich's cheeks. _How ridiculous!_

"I am male, need I state," Roderich insisted with a heavy tone.

The blonde let out a loud laugh. "Ah, how fun! The quick-fused type, I'd assume." The laughing ceased, and the smirk was replaced by a wistful look. "It almost reminds me of somebody else I know."

"Haha, I think that's enough for now." The brunette extended his right hand in a friendly gesture. "My name's Antonio, and that's my _amigo,_ Francis."

Roderich raised one eyebrow. _Spanish. Spanish and French. What a diverse little mix of cultures._

That name—Francis—he had _definitely_ heard it somewhere.

_No. It can't be—_

_Francis Bonnefoy._

_Paris Philharmonic's top patron._

Roderich wished he could take back what he had said and start the conversation all over again. The man he was talking to—Francis Bonnefoy—was somebody who could start his entire new career.

Or he could wreck it.

Roderich took Antonio's hand in a firm handshake. "Roderich Edelstein. A pleasure."

"Come on, _mon cher_! No need to be so firm!" Francis winked at him playfully and tossed a couple of his golden locks to one side. "Now, is there anything you need?"

Roderich noticed Francis' dark blue eyes flicker to the violin case in his hand.

"Yes. May I ask, are you familiar with the Paris Philharmonic Orchestra?" He asked the question, although he was very well aware what the answer was going to be.

" _Oui, oui_! The Paris Philharmonic is my _everything_! I believe I've already spent more than half of my life at _Le Château_ already!"

There it was again. That phrase—the name.

"I believe you really weren't actually all that curious, _non_?"

"Well…" Roderich felt somewhat embarrassed that Francis was able to pick up on that. He wasn't aware that he was that easy to read, or an "open book," as one might say. "Yes."  
Antonio shifted from his original position, placing what looked to be an oversized briefcase on the ground.

The briefcase wasn't actually a briefcase.

Because what it contained was an alto saxophone.

Noticing Roderich staring at the instrument, Antonio broke the silence. "She's nice, isn't she? I've been playing for almost 3 years now."

"Interesting," Roderich remarked. So this Spaniard was also a member of the Orchestra. Although, saxophones weren't typically considered as part of the lineup in a traditional orchestra. _Though, one could argue that nothing about this Orchestra is typical._

"You most likely were already able to assume this, but I'm looking for a specific concert hall—"

"Play," interrupted Francis.

"What? Shouldn't I—"

"Just play."

Roderich was getting progressively more confused. He looked to Antonio for any help but unfortunately did not receive any.

_Is this what Arthur was talking about when he said the audition process was unusual?_

_If so, then he couldn't be more right._

"Is there any etude in particular that you would like to—"

Francis silenced him with his pointer finger. "Anything. Now, this shouldn't be too much of a problem. If you _can_ play, that is…"

_No. That notion is preposterous._

"Of course I can!" Roderich felt himself growing more and more defensive.

_This man is very odd. This entire situation is odd._

"Going with the flow" had never been Roderich's strong suit. He needed to be notified beforehand, he needed to be prepared.

He needed to plan.

Unfortunately, now, he did not have the opportunity to do so.

"If you insist upon me playing, then I shall," Roderich added. He opened his violin's case and carefully brought the instrument out. In his left hand was the bow, poised in the perfect playing position that he had been practicing for so long.

Despite the odd looks from the strangers around him, Roderich began to play.

_Caprice No. 5. Paganini._

Too much thought wasn't put into the notes he was playing, yet, they were all pinpoint accurate. His fingers practically moved at the speed of light. Every dynamic and small articulation refused to go unnoticed; the quick and heavy melody flowed with such a fiery intensity and passion that would bring emotion to even the hardest of heart.

Memorization was a knack of his. Being able to just pick up an instrument and play whatever piece you wish without the hassle of sheet music was a blessing of its own.

Francis and Antonio watched with interest, as did many of the passersby. Some even stopped and stared, entranced by the beauty of the violin's music.

The piece continued, and soon enough, everybody's eyes were on Roderich.

He couldn't care less. The praise, the attention, the limelight—none of it was really all that appealing. It was really more of a burden than anything else, in his opinion.

The piece ended about the same way it started, save for a small flourish. The small crowd that had formed around him began to clap, with a few shouting glowing commandments in French.

Roderich (who was slightly embarrassed at the scene he had made) took a small and awkward bow. He wasn't exactly a street performer.

Francis clapped the loudest, his wide grin displaying rows of straight, white, teeth. " _Tres Magnifique_! Your skills are of topmost quality, Edelstein."

"Thank you, I appreciate it greatly," Roderich said in response. And he really did. Not necessarily because Francis held a position of authority within the Orchestra (although that obviously played _some_ part in it.) Alternatively, Roderich could tell that Francis held a deep appreciation for the Arts. The Frenchman _knew_ music and held it close to his heart, cherishing it in a way that Roderich was all-too-familiar with.

"Damn straight! That was incredible!" Antonio chimed in, his voice ever-so-enthusiastic, as always.

"Again, my gratitude for such praise is overwhelming. Thank you."

Perhaps praise really was a good thing, after all. But only when coming from people who could truly understand how much work was put into the craft of music, or so it seemed.

Francis nodded and muttered something to himself, inspecting the Austrian with close scrutiny. Suddenly, he reached over and pulled on the stray piece of hair that stuck up from the rest of Roderich's scalp.

Roderich yelped in surprise, his hand instinctively moving upwards to the affected area. "Mr. Bonnefoy, may I ask what that was for?"

Francis chuckled, his laugh airy and carefree. "Ah, it was nothing. I was just wondering about that little…" He motioned to the untamed hair with his left hand.

"Oh, that. I really should have gelled it down before I left this morning…" A wave of self-consciousness washed over his body, making his stomach churn with unease. That small ahoge (for lack of a better term,) was something he didn't particularly enjoy about his appearance. It diminished the polished, sophisticated, air that he strived to achieve.  
Roderich didn't pay it much mind when he was younger. In fact, he had actually nicknamed the ahoge Mariazell after a prominent city in Austria.

Francis shook his head vigorously. " _Non_ , I'm actually very glad that you didn't. At the Paris Philharmonic, we have some very… interesting musicians," he said. "When we play, we like to tell a story with our music. And of course, an excellent story requires excellent characters, _oui_?"

Roderich nodded slowly but still wasn't exactly sure where the conversation was going.

"So, with that being said, I have an offer to make," Francis proposed. "Follow me to the concert hall. Show Vargas a little bit of what you can do, and then…" He gestured grandly at Roderich. "Your new life as a first-chair violinist at the Paris Philharmonic will begin!"

_Yes. Yes. Yes._

_A thousand times, yes._

"Certainly. I wouldn't want to have it any other way," Roderich said almost immediately. He didn't want to come off as _too_ eager, but he just couldn't help himself. These past few weeks—he had been starved. Devoid of any music or passion or _life._ Francis' suggestion would allow him to start anew, rising from the ashes like a phoenix.

Francis clapped his hands together in approval. _"Tres Bien!_ Now, _mes amies—_ " He stuck another ridiculously over-the-top pose before pointing to the road ahead. "Onwards! To a new life!"

Antonio cheered something in response, matching Francis's fervor.

Roderich raised his lips in a tight smile, similar to the one he had given Arthur at _The Forest Alcove_ the previous night. While most of Francis' statements came off as rather ostentatious, his recurring idea of "a new life" seemed to resonate with him.

"To a new life," Roderich echoed quietly.


	4. Prelude - Intrépide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fearless.

_**Allegretto, from Symphony No. 7** _ _-_ <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vCHREyE5GzQ>

* * *

Gilbert felt like hell. His sleep was a fitful one, with those 6 hours that were supposed to be for the purpose of rest being constantly interrupted. Thoughts, anxieties, hopes, fears—all swirled together into one, unpleasant, cocktail. A cocktail that he was reluctant to swallow.

Nevertheless, he had a place to be. _Château de la Musique_ was about 20 minutes away from his apartment complex, and that was if he ran.

" _Bruder_? I didn't know you would be up this early," Ludwig said as he watched his older brother pour another Red Bull down his throat.

"Wasn't my choice. Believe me, if Mr. Vargas wasn't so bent upon tormenting us, I'd be in bed right now," Gilbert muttered in response. His speaking lacked the usual confidence and ardor that it typically had.

" _Buongiorno_!" Feliciano bounded into the kitchen with a cheerful grin plastered on his face, moving with a quick and joyful liveliness that seemed to light up the room. He was naked (save for a pair of underwear), but didn't seem to care too much.

On the other hand, Ludwig did.

"Feliciano! Put your clothes on!" Ludwig yelled, his neck already turning a deep shade of red.

Feliciano obliviously cocked his head to one side, his appearance similar to that of a clueless puppy. "But why, Luddy? It's more comfortable this way! Besides, you didn't really care that I wasn't wearing any clothes last night—"

Ludwig promptly clamped his hand over Feliciano's mouth, not wanting the Italian to reveal all intimate details about the night before.

Gilbert laughed weakly. Normally he would have jokingly made some sort of pass at Feliciano just to see his younger brother's jealous reaction, but at that moment, he really didn't care. He was fighting just to keep his eyes open—a fight that he was close to losing.

Meanwhile, Ludwig had finally convinced Feliciano to leave the room to get dressed, arguing that the Orchestra wouldn't appreciate next-to-nudity.

Feliciano was the grandson of Mr. Julius Vargas and played the tenor saxophone. He, just like Gilbert, was required to attend morning rehearsal. The only difference was, Feliciano was much more of a morning person than Gilbert.

Actually, Feliciano was more like an all-day person. His energy seemed to know no bounds, which is precisely what made him so endearing to some (and somewhat annoying to others.)

Being Italian, Feliciano liked to flirt with good-looking people—female or male. It slightly irked Ludwig, but at the end of the day, they both knew they really were meant for each other.

Suddenly, Gilbert felt out of place. Almost like a middle-aged man, sitting on a weathered bench, watching the school children prance around the playground. Devoid of the youth that seemed to differentiate the young and the old.

Gilbert crushed the empty can of Red Bull in his hand. Why did things have to be this way? Why was he always merely a spectator? Couldn't there be _more_?

"Will you be needing a ride to the concert hall?" Ludwig asked.

" _Ja_." Gilbert glanced at his wrist where his wristwatch typically sat, only to find it bare. He shifted his gaze to the small clock on the microwave. Written in glowing, yellow, letters were the numbers _7:19_. "Of course, I'm awesomely athletic, but getting all the way over there by foot in 11 minutes is impossible."

Ludwig nodded and left the kitchen, most likely going to get his keys. Feliciano ran out of the hallway screaming, although was dressed, this time.

"Ve~Luddy! You don't have to drive us!" Feliciano placed a hand on Ludwig's shoulder reassuringly. "Lovi said that he would be dropping by anyway, and he agreed to give us a ride!"

Gilbert tensed in his seat. Lovino wasn't the easiest person to deal with (especially in the morning) and had some sort of vendetta against German people. Once, Gilbert had accidentally let a few words in his native tongue slip in front of the short-tempered Italian.

Needless to say, he made sure to never do it again.

Judging by his reaction, Ludwig most likely felt the same way. Lovino held even more contempt for the blonde than he did for Gilbert, which probably had something to do with the fact that the former was sleeping with his younger brother.

"Ah… Feliciano, are you sure that's a good idea?" Sweat began to form on Ludwig's brow, a visual sign of nervousness. It was common knowledge that Lovino wouldn't hurt a fly, (because he _physically couldn't_ ) but he was extremely powerful. Both Vargas brothers were the heirs to one of Italy's largest fashion names. It was slightly harder to tell with Feliciano who lived a rather humble lifestyle, but Lovino held absolutely nothing back when he wanted to flaunt his wealth.

Feliciano nodded, still oblivious as ever. "Yep! Why wouldn't it be?"

_Classic Feli. Always seeing the best in people._

"I could think of a couple of reasons," Gilbert chimed in as he got up from his seat.

He left the kitchen and entered his bedroom. Sitting on his desk right next to a stack of journals (all titled _The Record of my Awesome Life_ , numbered and arranged in ascending order,) was his flute case. Gilbert carried the instrument in one hand, using the other to slip his wallet into his back pocket.

A loud yawn escaped his mouth. Apparently choking down cups of coffee and Red Bull did absolutely nothing to wake him up.

_Music has ought to do it, then. Right?_

While some might find it boring. Gilbert felt a burst of energy whenever he walked into _Château de Musique_. The concert hall itself was grand and ornately decorated. The stage was large, the walls were lacquered ebony. And (what was undoubtedly Gilbert's favorite part) was the glimmering chandelier up above. Vines of brilliant brass curled around iridescent crystals, spilling golden light onto the seats below—the aesthetic of it all was grandiose, to say the least.

And he loved it.

But there was a large disparity between merely sitting in the concert hall rather than _playing_ in it. When he was up on that wide stage and those heavy, velvet, curtains the colour of rose petals parted, something inside of him calmed. Gilbert wasn't a timid person by any means, so stage-fright was never a concern for him. In fact, he was told more than just a couple of times that his confidence was somewhat irritating.

Performing was a magical experience. Hearing the loud, melodious, tones around him as well as his own music mix and swirl into something bigger—something _bolder—_ was practically world-changing.

The rehearsal hall, on the other hand, was much humbler. It was still large, but not nearly as extravagant, only housing chairs and a podium for the conductor.

Gilbert flipped the light switch and took one last look at his room. Every minute, every hour, every day spent with music and friends and joy made his monotonous, lonely, life feel like heaven.

The only problem being:

How could he make it last?

He couldn't spend the nights laughing and drinking and making out with his flute. Well, he could, but getting sent to a mental ward didn't prioritize itself on Gilbert's to-do list.

It shouldn't have been too hard. He wasn't ugly or a misogynistic douche like many others who had the same problem. He certainly was attractive to some.

_Am I just being too picky? I have to settle down eventually._

Gilbert thought about the pianist from the night before.

_He can't be a day over 23. Yet, he's already got himself a wife!_

He recalled the specifics of the pianist's conversation with Arthur.

_Okay, well, their relationship might not be the best one. But still!_

_He has somebody._

Gilbert heard the faint noises of Feliciano's bubbly laughter coming from the other room.

_Just like how Ludwig has Feli. Or how Toni has Lovino._

A cold brick of dread settled in his stomach at the thought of Lovino. Lovino, the man who was supposedly giving him and Feliciano a ride to the _Château_ in a few more minutes. Lovino, the man who basically hated everybody who even dared to look at him.

Lovino, the man with who Gilbert had to endure a 10 minutes drive with.

He left the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

Entering the living room area, Gilbert could see Feliciano peering through the blinds. While the apartment was quite average in terms of size, its view of the streets below was incredible. Sometimes, Gilbert would spend hours just staring out the window, watching the twinkle of stars and the lights of Paris through the paned glass.

Feliciano whipped his head around and tapped Ludwig (who was standing nearby) on the shoulder. "Ve~ I'm pretty sure that's Lovi's car!"

Gilbert approached where Feliciano was standing and snuck a glance. Indeed, there was a bright, red, Porsche Panamera sitting proudly in the apartment complex's parking lot. The boldness of the luxury car made it impossible to ignore, especially when parked amongst rows of vehicles on the lower end of the price range in varying shades of gray and black.

Feliciano picked up his own instrument case and walked towards the door, but not before planting a quick kiss on Ludwig's nose. " _Ciao_! I'll be seeing you this afternoon, right?"

Ludwig nodded in affirmation, his face still flushed from the small display of affection. " _Ja._ Don't get into an accident on the way there."

Feliciano giggled and said something along the lines of "You're so silly! Why would that happen?"

However, upon hearing poor Kiku's tales of reckless, impromptu, road trips with Feliciano, it was somewhat hard to believe that argument. Both Feliciano and Lovino were known to get aggressive and/or hyper when behind the wheel.

The ajar door made it possible for Gilbert to hear the car horn's noise, followed by a string of obscenities in both Italian and English.

"I think you two should really get going now," Ludwig suggested, his voice wavering from anxiety. "It's best to just not initiate anything that even seems like an argument with him."

He couldn't be more right.

Gilbert and Feliciano left the apartment, rushed down three flights of steps, and were immediately met by a scowling, all-too-familiar, face.

Lovino didn't even wait a single second before launching into his rant. He jabbed an accusatory finger at Gilbert's chest and glared at him. "You took forever, stupid bastard! I'm not your damn chauffeur!"

Gilbert chuckled nervously and offered a half-hearted apology. "Sorry?"

Lovino huffed and turned around. He trudged over to the Porsche, wordlessly prompting the other two to follow him. "Can't believe I'm doing this _charity work_. Ridiculous."

Feliciano frowned and hurried after his older brother. "Lovi, please don't yell! We'll try being more punctual next time, okay?"

Lovino rolled his eyes as if to disregard the comment, but upon further inspection, it appeared that his sharp gaze had softened. The Italian certainly did have a soft spot for a few people, including Antonio, Feliciano, and Emma (A Belgian girl who used to take care of Lovino when he was younger.) "Whatever," he mumbled quietly.

"Good morning, everyone! I take it that you all have gone over the music I provided you with at the end of our last rehearsal?" Mr. Vargas took one scan of the room, catching disgruntled facial expressions and mutters of annoyance that was far from hidden. He let out a booming laugh and grinned. "I was just joking, no need to worry! Rehearsal ran late last night, I know. A good night's sleep is also _very_ important, and I feel as though I cannot stress this enough."

Over the rows of Violas, Mr. Vargas managed to make brief eye contact with Gilbert, shooting the white-haired man a knowing look.

_Damn. Is it really that obvious?_

Gilbert wished for a mirror at that moment. He had tried to hide all signs of his terrible sleep from the night before and pull his appearance together to at least look bordering-on-the-edge-of-presentable, but apparently, he wasn't doing a very good job.

Mr. Vargas idly played with his baton while waiting for the musicians to procure the music they had received at the previous rehearsal. Gilbert had almost forgotten about the piece entirely—he had intended to take a look at it once he got back to his apartment, but he had forgotten to.

Gilbert shuffled around a few stray papers in his battered leather folder that he refused to throw away, even if it was about to burst at the seams. He removed a couple sheets of music, both sharing the common name: _Allegretto_ , with " _From Symphony No. 7"_ written in smaller print underneath the title. Gilbert's eyes flew over the page, searching for anything that would pique his interest.

Unfortunately, he came up dry. He had three measures in the very beginning, but then was smacked by a 15-measure-long rest, followed up by an 8-measure-long one. Even from measure 27, where the "action" began, his part involved playing staccato eight notes and quarter notes on G.

The rehearsal hall immediately erupted into chaos. Discontent was heavy in the air, so thick to the point where Gilbert could almost feel it. Many of his fellow musicians seemed to share the same opinions about their parts in the new piece, with only a few of the bolder ones actually expressing it.

"Vargas, dude, this is a total drag!" whined Alfred F. Jones from the trumpet section. Alfred enjoyed being the center of attention more than anything, which was something that Allegretto simply didn't provide. The American was also confident enough to address the conductor informally, something that was fairly uncommon amongst the others.

Ivan Braginsky, a tall and imposing Russian cellist chimed in with his opinion. "I do not see where Alfred is coming from. This piece is more than satisfactory," he contested. Ivan and Alfred seemed to constantly be at odds with each other, purposefully disagreeing on both petty and important matters.

Gilbert bit the inside of his mouth. He had heard _Allegretto_ performed before. Back when he was just about 14 years old, his parents had taken him along with Ludwig to go see The Staatskapelle in Berlin, who had performed the previously-mentioned song. Scrounging through and piecing together the loose memories from his childhood like puzzle pieces, GIlbert could remember a few details about _Allegretto_. For one; it was incredibly string-heavy. While the more dramatic and louder parts of the melody involved a significant amount of work from the Low Brass and Timpani, it wasn't difficult to hear the low and rich tune of the Cello underneath it all.

No wonder Ivan was so enthusiastic.

Gilbert also recalled something else. _Allegretto_ was not a fluffy adventure of rainbows and sparkles. It was dark and heavy and dramatic, evoking some sense of forebode deep inside the mind of the audience.

Alfred glared daggers at Ivan, who kept a childlike smile on his face. The two continued this for a while, exchanging less-than-friendly banter loud enough so the other could hear from across the room. Mr. Vargas rubbed the bridge of his nose, a sign that he was losing patience.

The two ceased their arguing. Before sitting down, however, they gave each other a warning look that screamed "this isn't over yet." As far as Gilbert knew, the rivalry between Alfred and Ivan would never be over. The way they fought was amusing; it reminded Gilbert of the Cold War in a way. No actual physical altercation. Just tension.

"Now, I understand that some of you might not find this piece to your liking, but I must make one thing clear." Vargas slammed the baton onto the podium, producing a snapping sort of noise. "In order to keep our funds coming along smoothly, we will have to host a concert within the last week of the month."

Gilbert did a few calculations in his head. The last week of November was the week of the 22nd to the 29th.

Which could only mean—

"Damn it, Rome! You said we'd have that week off for Thanksgiving!" yelled Lovino. His nickname for his grandfather was curious. Gilbert had asked Feliciano about it, who just laughed and said that his father had once made a joke that Mr. Vargas was practically as old as Rome. So the name just stuck.

Mr. Vargas shrugged his shoulders helplessly. "There's nothing I can do about rescheduling. Although, you won't have to worry about being busy on Thanksgiving day. The concert will be on the Wednesday before," he reassured.

Gilbert took it all in a stride. He never really cared for Thanksgiving—it was another one of those "family" holidays. He knew Feliciano had invited Ludwig to his place for dinner, and even offered for Gilbert to tag along.

Other than that, he really didn't mind. However, he was a little frustrated that he couldn't take the time off for himself. Then again, what would he do? Spent the week curled up on the couch, watching _Lindenstraße_ on the TV, with a bottle of cheap beer?

Probably.

Mr. Vargas clapped his hands together, demanding silence. "Everyone! We'll have our first run-through of _Allegretto._ I take it that you're all warmed up already, yes?"

A chorus of "yeahs" and the occasionally pretentious "yes sir" echoed throughout the room.

Gilbert brought his flute up to his lips. As he waited for the conductor to count them off, he couldn't help but wonder where his friends were. Francis was always sitting somewhere off to the side of the room—examining his nails, doing his hair, checking out attractive girls on Tinder—but still very much interested in the Orchestra's progress. There was also the absence of Antonio, who Gilbert presumed was just late.

It's not like Gilbert and his friends (who were dubbed 'the Bad Touch Trio' for reasons unknown to him) could really engage in many conversations at all when they were at rehearsal. For starters, if Mr. Vargas caught anybody who wasn't giving their full attention, he would give them a firm talking-to, to say the least. In that regard, the conductor was a pretty strict man, though everyone knew he just wanted the best for the Orchestra as a whole.

 _Allegretto_ was named _Allegretto_ for a reason. Its tempo was 72 beats per measure—allegretto.

How literal.

Mr. Vargas counted them off, and the first run-through of _Allegretto_ was underway.

The beginning started off subtler. It was dense with cello, bass, and low-brass, but still quiet. There were small stumbles here and there, and the violas and violins began to chime in. The tune was overall mellow, but still possessed a strange, looming, cloud of doubt and fear over it. Yet, through that dark cloud was a sharp beam of light—hope. The crescendo began, and the melody shifted over to the trumpets.

The piece continued. It didn't go off flawlessly without a hitch—the musicians were skilled, but still very much human.

Eventually, it came to a close, with the last few notes going to the string section.

Mr. Vargas put down his baton and scrutinized the people in front of him. "That was okay. But I feel something is missing. Do you feel it?"

Gilbert felt it. Having heard the piece performed before (and spectacularly, at that) he knew there was some aspect of _Allegretto_ that he and his fellow Orchestra members simply were not grasping. Was it tone quality? Dynamics?

Suddenly, the door flung open, revealing Francis, Antonio, and another man. A man with chocolate brown hair, with one stubborn strand sticking upwards. A man wearing thin-rimmed glasses over gleaming violet eyes. A man with a small mole on his chin.

_The pianist. The Austrian. It's really him. He's really here._

Gilbert stared at the brunette for more than just a few seconds. He couldn't help himself. It was almost like the Austrian was some sort of an illusion. A magic trick of sorts, like the ones Vladimir would insist upon performing for the other violists in his section during their small breaks.

"Oh, looks like my timing was impeccable, as always." Francis entered the room, his step almost girlish. "Hope you're all doing well this morning!" He directed his attention to the conductor, his voice's volume dropping ever so slightly. "Vargas, I have somebody that I'd like you to meet."


	5. Interlude: Paradigm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An example.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To anyone who's reading this—  
> Thank you, so much! This work wasn't as viewed as I had originally hoped, and I spent quite a while on it. So, to the (I don't know, 5?) people that come across this, I really appreciate it!   
> Now, enjoy!

Roderich's heart was beating through his chest. Francis appeared as confident as ever, as did Antonio. They were nearing the end of the hallway, where this so-called "new life" would begin. The rehearsal hall. Upon arriving at the building, Roderich quickly understood what everybody was referring to when they mentioned "Château" in their conversation. The full name for the Concert hall was Château de la Musique. Inquiring about it to Francis earned Roderich the translation: "Castle of Music." The exterior was classy and grandiose, unlike others he had been to which opted for a sleeker, more modern look.

From the outside, Roderich could hear the Orchestra practicing. The piece was loud; the tone was thick, but not in the clunky way. He could just barely recognize what it was. Beethoven's Allegretto, from Symphony No. 7.

The closer the trio got to the door, the louder the music got. It sounded like they were reaching the climax point, which was unarguably the loudest part.

Roderich came to one conclusion based on what he heard:

The Paris Philharmonic was incredible. While their playing was somewhat shaky and hesitant, the notes were all accurate. Nobody fell behind the beat, either.

There was one thing. Over the thunderous Timpani drums and sonorous Tubas, the high trill of a flute shone through. Whoever played that flute must have been both extremely assertive and extremely talented. Their vibrato was perfect; Roderich could notice it even through the muffle of the wall. Although, they may have been just a little too assertive. The melody didn't belong to the flutes at that particular part of the song.

Francis and Antonio didn't look like they had any intentions on barging in while the Orchestra was in the middle of playing. Common courtesy, Roderich thought.

The song continued. Roderich subconsciously made a few mental notes on anything that could be improved upon. Strangely enough, there really weren't too many slip-ups at all. Still, there most certainly was something missing.

Allegretto was a captivating piece. The aura that it gave off was mysterious and far from lighthearted. It wasn't necessarily a sad song, like one that you would hear played in the background of a supposedly tear-jerking drama as the main character explained their sob story in the form of a dry monologue.

While the Orchestra's playing was exceptional, the musicians weren't exactly capturing what needed to be captured. There most certainly was emotion packed into each and every note, but not exactly the right emotion.

They waited for a few more minutes. Normally, Roderich would have gotten rather impatient.

But he wasn't. He genuinely wanted to hear more.

If I can show the conductor—Mr. Vargas—exactly what I can do… show him how much I can bring to this Orchestra… I will hear more. I'll be part of it, too.

Roderich didn't exactly have a plan, or a magical ace up his sleeve to woo Mr. Vargas into accepting him as a member of the violin section. After all, their concert date was coming up soon. Could they really afford to make such an addition in the spur-of-the-moment?

If I prove that I'm good enough, they can.

Roderich remembered what Francis said about being good enough for First Chair. Was he really skilled enough to take up such an important role? What if the current occupant of first-chair violin spot resented him? What if they somehow managed to turn the entire rest of the Orchestra against him?

What-if. What-if. What-if.

I'm sick of it. These notions are laughable! I need to have more confidence. Like…

There it was, again. From the hall, he could hear that flute; playing so fearlessly.

Whoever had that flute in their hands—Roderich admired them. Not only was their playing technique next-to-perfect (complete perfection was known to be unachievable) but the sheer fortitude of their playing wasn't anything to sneeze at.

Roderich felt a small buzz from his pocket. He quickly removed his phone and switched it on. Gracing the center of his lock-screen was a single text message from Elizaveta.

* * *

**E: so how's the search going?**

* * *

He re-read the message a couple more times, not quite digesting it properly. What did that mean? Was Elizaveta just being cryptic again, as usual?

* * *

**R: Search? What search?**

**E: the job search. you told me about it this morning, remember?**

* * *

Roderich's fingers froze, halfway in the middle of typing out another text. He deleted that one and mentally kicked himself.

Indeed, he had told his wife he was out looking for a job that day, although he never actually specified what type of job he was looking for. Roderich didn't exactly know why he felt the need to hide the fact that he was planning on joining the Paris Philharmonic a secret.

Was it really healthy for them to be hiding things from each other?

Then again, nothing about their relationship was really all that healthy.

Deep down, Roderich had a nagging feeling that Elizaveta wouldn't approve of his decision to keep pursuing music. After they had gotten married, she had assumed that he would sacrifice at least part of his music career for the better interest of their relationship.

Plus, he was able to connect the dots. Joining a new Orchestra meant that he would constantly be practicing and leaving for rehearsals. Roderich didn't exactly know whether the Paris Philharmonic was planning on performing at any international venues, but he was almost certain that Elizaveta would get upset.

It's not that Elizaveta was annoying. She was a brave and strong-willed woman, but maybe just a little too stubborn for her own good.

Am I just not cut out for a relationship at all?

It was the closest thing to the truth that Roderich would really uncover. An ugly truth.

Maybe it's just time for me to come clean about this. If she really cared about me, she would support my interests as well.

* * *

**R: Elizaveta, I am currently looking into joining a new orchestra.**

* * *

Roderich stared at the screen in anticipation, waiting for that tell-tale bubble with three dots inside to signify that Elizaveta was responding.

It never came.

Meanwhile, the Orchestra's run-through was coming to a close.

He could hear Mr. Vargas say something—normally it would have been difficult to pick up on something like that from the outside of the room, but the conductor's voice was incredibly loud. "That was okay. But I feel something is missing. Do you feel it?"

Roderich could feel it, despite the fact that he wasn't even in the rehearsal hall himself. He was glad that Mr. Vargas picked up on it, too.

After all, an orchestra needs a capable conductor in order to perform at their best.

Roderich watched in surprise as Francis flung the door open, with seemingly no intentions of entering the room unnoticed. Antonio followed him without a moment of hesitation, as if he was used to it. He probably was.

Tentatively, Roderich followed the two.

"Oh, looks like my timing was impeccable, as always," Francis said boldly, addressing the entire room. The musicians themselves didn't seem to mind Francis' interruption. "Vargas, I have somebody that I'd like you to meet."

Roderich felt a hundred pairs of eyes dart towards him. The musicians began to converse quietly amongst themselves, making observations and assumptions about the prospective first-chair violin.

He felt embarrassed; almost out of place. It was similar to the feeling he got when he transferred to a new highschool when his father switched jobs. That feeling of not belonging.

Antonio waved to everyone cheerfully as he walked towards his seat, making sure to send a wink to a certain, irritable, brown-haired, saxophone player in the crowd.

As he scanned the room once more, Roderich caught a flash of crimson in a sea of green, blue, and brown.

His breath seemed to hitch in his throat. It was that man… that man who had approached him at the bar, the night before. White hair, pale skin, and a specific trait that could either be perceived as confidence or arrogance.

The man held a flute.

Roderich couldn't help but wonder if he was the very man who managed to play so assertively in the Allegretto run-through.

However, there wasn't much time to think about it. Mr. Vargas had already fixed his attention onto Roderich, and would surely ask him to properly introduce himself soon enough.

Mr. Vargas examined Roderich in a strange way that wasn't condescending or intimidating at all. He was just curious.

"Violin, I see," Mr. Vargas observed. "It's not like we're short of those." He gestured to what Roderich could assume was the violin section.

There weren't very many stand-outs in the lineup of 16, with the exception being an aloof-looking, blonde-haired girl with a deadpan expression on her face. Occasionally, she would send longing glances towards the cello section. Another person (tall and male, with a similar appearance to the girl) grimaced every time he noticed her staring.

Roderich recalled how Francis had described the musicians of the Paris Philharmonic.

An excellent story requires excellent characters.

He took another look at the people around him. Everything seemed to vary—hair colour, eye colour, skin colour.

They must be of all different nationalities, too, then. How interesting.

Typically one would expect a group to look at least remotely similar in a European city like Paris. Apparently that just didn't apply for this Orchestra. On top of that, Roderich hadn't heard the conductor speak a single word in French once so far.

Mr. Vargas cleared his throat and turned towards Francis. "Bonnefoy, what evaluation have you made so far?"

Francis smiled and answered the question smoothly. "I can assure you, Edelstein's skill level is practically on a different level," he explained. "He played one of Paganini's works. Beautifully. A paradigm, dare I say."

Mr. Vargas nodded slowly. "I see. So, then, I'm sure you know that someone able to fulfill the concertmaster role must have a… certain quality, to them. Yes?"

"Of course, sir," Roderich replied, not missing a beat. He was eager to make a good impression on this man.

The conductor grinned and held his baton upright between his index and middle finger. "It's easy to assume that a concertmaster has to be a leader. But that's really not the case. Having that position doesn't give you any more power or authority than you would have normally. With that being said, a concertmaster needs to be able to play with the group well," he began. "From what Francis has said, I'm under the impression that you're a talented soloist. While that's undoubtedly an excellent thing, I'd like to make sure that your style of playing will work with the rest of your section as well as the Orchestra as a whole. Understood?"

"Certainly."

Roderich really didn't understand as well as he let on. He had been expecting the conductor to ask him to perform an etude or something as an audition, or at the very least ask about his skills.

This is a Philharmonic orchestra, Roderich reminded himself. "Philharmonic" was a rather loose term, which quite literally meant "music-loving." He was used to playing in a much smaller group, limited to only strings, like in the Chamber orchestra back in Vienna. There were roughly 100 musicians in a Philharmonic, while the Chamber orchestra had around 25.

Essentially, Roderich would be another face in a sea of musicians. Even more so than before.

Was that really a bad thing? Attention wasn't exactly what he was looking for in music, anyway.

No. It's not a bad thing. Perhaps having more variety in musical tone might even broader my perspectives, too.

"Good! Now, what I'm going to ask of you might seem a little bit outrageous. Just hear me out, alright?" Mr. Vargas turned himself towards the podium, shuffling through folders to find a couple pieces of paper held together by a single paperclip. A pale yellow post-it was stuck to the first sheet, with the words "1st violins" scribbled on it in permanent marker.

The musicians watched in interest as the conductor removed one set of sheets from the stack. Some of them could already assume what was going to happen next, with some unintentionally remaining oblivious.

"Ve~ what's he doing?" asked someone, seeming curious as to what he was watching.

"Shh! Things are finally getting interesting, dammit!" yelled another voice excitedly.

"This is a complete waste of time," concluded a female voice in a (Russian?) accent.

What a chatty group.

Mr. Vargas handed the paper (which could now be confirmed as sheet music) to Roderich.

At the very top was the title of the piece:

Allegretto.

I see.

As expected, Roderich concluded that what he was supposed to do next was more than a little bit unconventional. However, if he wanted to build his career with this group, he would have to work with it.

It's fine. I can do unconventional.

He really couldn't. Not well, anyway. What he was used to was incredibly different from this, more so than he had originally assumed.

Will this work?

Roderich clutched the sheet music tighter, noticing how the edges began to crease at the pressure.

If it doesn't, it's not the end of the world. I may have to do some searching, but I'm sure I will be able to find another Orchestra with a vacant position.

But is just another vacant spot really what I hope to fill here?

What was dangling in front of him was far more than that. A concertmaster position; one that would have usually been next to impossible to obtain by just walking into the room and asking for it.

Usually.

"Katyusha? We're going to need another chair," Mr. Vargas ordered, his head angled towards a busty woman with short hair filing paperwork in the small office area on the far end of the room.

Katyusha nodded and hurried off to a set of doors, entering the one that was not marked "percussion storage." She came back, holding a black chair. "Ah, do I just put it here with the rest of the violins?" The woman pushed the chair into the empty spot next to the austere blonde girl.

Mr. Vargas scratched his chin and shook his head. "A little more to the front. I want to be able to see it better."

Roderich's nerves began to act up again. Suddenly, the entire process felt more like a traditional audition than before. While the rest of the Orchestra would be playing, too, the conductor's attention would be on him (for the most part.)

"Sir, is this all really necessary?" Roderich questioned waveringly.

"Naturally! This is a major role you're looking to play, here, so the vetting process should be up to speed as well."

"Okay, then…"

Roderich approached the chair and sat down. He slid the newly-acquired music onto the bare stand, and took a quick look at it before bending over to open his violin case.

He removed the violin and bow from the case, ignoring the odd glances from those around him. You didn't see a left-handed violinist every day, and the scale of his success in Vienna made it even more rare.

Everybody watched in silence as Roderich tuned his instrument, with some looking more intrigued than others.

The girl sitting to his immediate left was presumably the current concertmaster. She glared at Roderich with icey contempt, most likely angry that she would be replaced by a stranger who just waltzed right in.

Mr. Vargas cast everyone a look that screamed "pay-attention-to-the music, not-the-newbie." He drew out a pencil from the small stack laying on his podium and made a few markings on his own score. "We'll go from 65 to 116. Tino, remember that we're going to need a lot of timpani in this section."

The person (supposedly Tino) chirped a "yes sir" in response, almost inaudible from the very back of the room.

Roderich's fusion focused on the part of the song Mr. Vargas was talking about. Indeed, the last few bars of the part were some of the loudest and most memorable measures of the piece. It demanded nothing short of fortissimo, with a few crescendos and decrescendos thrown into the mix as well.

I can do this. This should not be difficult.

Essentially, what Roderich was about to play would be his audition. That first-chair spot… the spot he was simply sitting in now could be formally occupied by him. If his playing was good enough, that is.

From where he was sitting, Roderich was able to catch sight of a head of white hair that he was somehow familiar and unfamiliar with simultaneously.

Roderich's gaze moved from the stranger's hair to his eyes. Those rubies, garnets—whatever they were, they were impossible not to stare at.

Then, there it was.

He winked. The cocky bastard actually winked at him!

Roderich averted his stare instantly, paying an unnatural amount of attention to the wood grain pattern on the floor.

Mr. Vargas raised his baton, ripping Roderich's regard away from the ground and onto the page in front of him.

"Are we all ready? Good." The conductor made eye contact with Roderich and beamed for what felt like the 20th time that morning. "I have high expectations for you, paradigm."


	6. Interlude: Conviction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confidence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go! Another chapter.  
> If you were confused as to why this work is titled "Danse Bacchanale" even though the piece hasn't even been mentioned in the story so far, it will start to make sense in the next few chapters.  
> Until then, please enjoy!  
> Let the pining commence! ＜(●｀∀´●)＞

Gilbert had that feeling, again. That strange feeling that he had finally dubbed as “side-character-syndrome.” That odd sensation where he would feel like an outsider; a side character, watching the main cast live their (far more interesting by comparison) life. This new violinist was certainly talented. He reminded Gilbert of one of the child prodigies that would make their debut on a talent show at 8 and win a large sum of money, only to be forgotten once they left the stage.

_No. I don’t think anyone could forget somebody like him._

Gilbert wasn’t able to get a very good look at the man the previous night at _The Forest Alcove,_ the lights had been dim and he had been sitting a good distance away. The two did have some closer-up interaction, though it was rather brief. 

_Roderich_ , Gilbert recalled. _That’s his name._

He still wasn’t able to take in the entirety of Roderich’s appearance. He was first-flute, while Roderich was a first-violin. Gilbert cursed the block of second violins that just so happened to separate the two sections under the guise of acoustic benefit. 

_If only I could…_

Gilbert’s gaze moved from the violinist himself to the people surrounding him. He wasn’t exactly jealous of them, per se. He had never been too keen on stringed instruments, despite learning very rudimentary skills on the violin under the guidance of Old Fritz. The violin didn’t quite interest him as much as the flute did, leading Gilbert to eventually pursue the latter. One of the few times that following his heart had actually done him well instead of landing him in a holding cell with a terrible hangover. 

“Are we all ready? Good.”

Mr. Vargas’ voice interrupted Gilbert’s reverie. He immediately raised the flute to his lips, his eyes scanning the sheet music before him. Measure 65 on to 116 reminded him of a fantastical interlude to an otherwise dark and heavy song, very light and (as he guessed) had an important violin part. The first flute part was also crucial in the aforementioned section, but he would most likely have to tone his vigor down at least a little bit during the run. 

_That’s his audition,_ Gilbert realized. 

_Would I want an audition like that?_

_Maybe somebody with performance anxiety would. But I…_

He wasn’t timid at all, whether it be in disposition or just personality. A habit of his would be to just say whatever came to his mind, even if it was offensive or just downright idiotic to say. If there was a filter on his mouth, it certainly wasn’t doing its job correctly. 

The truth was, Gilbert didn’t exactly have too much self-esteem available to him in the first place. By boosting his ego up and acting confident in front of others, he hoped he would eventually be able to convince himself that he actually was who he made himself out to be. 

When it came to playing, however, Gilbert never held anything back, ignoring the _piano_ dynamic markings that had been circled and highlighted numerous times. Even back when he first started playing, back when he could barely get out a proper-sounding note without causing Old Fritz to cover his ears. 

The first song Gilbert played in front of an audience was “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” It wouldn’t be much of an exaggeration to say that he butchered almost the entire piece. 

Yet, he was still proud of himself the entire time, beaming and giving a cheesy bow once he finished. When he played, it was like he really did have that conviction that he strived for. 

_That’s gotta mean at least something, right?_

Mr. Vargas waved his baton. It was time to begin.

And so it did.

Measure 65 began with the end, despite how confusing that might sound. The section prior to it was dramatic and high pitched, and that measure was when that pronounced cry of strings and woodwinds needed to come to a denouement, or at least temporarily. 

Gilbert played, finding it somewhat difficult to quiet his own playing down as to not distract from the main feature. The violin. 

He knew he was supposed to be focused on his music, but he couldn’t help but stare at a certain prospective concertmaster. 

_Damn._

Roderich’s hands moved smoothly with careful purpose; his right hand’s fingers pressed firmly against the strings with the left hand wielding the bow. The tone quality he produced was exemplary, every dynamic and note and small articulation that was written on the page was followed precisely without fail. 

_Is he even real? He might be an AI!_

_Is this a reality TV show, or something? Are they trying to get everybody’s reaction to this?_

Gilbert looked to the ceiling and quickly looked back once he noticed the lack of cameras. He was both surprised and proud of himself for not losing track of the music after the brief distraction. 

Gilbert thought the Austrian man was beautiful the night before. Now, he was more than that.

_Magical._

The way Roderich’s violet eyes sparkled in the most charming way when he played, even under the harsh and supposedly unappealing fluorescent lighting. 

_Maybe I do believe in angels._

Gilbert felt his cheeks heat up. His thoughts seem to just run off on their own, like a schoolchild on a sugar high. Although, what really would be an incentive to even make an attempt to control them? 

It was only Roderich’s first time playing through this piece. He was just sight-reading. The others in his section were going in on their second try, though by some strange occurrence, their playing was practically drowned out by the mystical tune of the first violin. 

_Like the protagonist of some cheesy opera,_ Gilbert thought with an internal smirk. The smugness faded once he reasoned who _he_ would be in said opera.

_A side character._

His heart felt cold, as did his surroundings. 

_Why can’t I be the star? I’m way more awesome than everyone else! I totally deserve it!_

_But…_

_Do I?_

Gilbert’s doubts quickly morphed into self-consciousness, pricking at his waning confidence like small needles. 

He wasn’t exactly a genius. He couldn’t lift more than 100 pounds without collapsing. His skin was pasty. His left eyelid sagged slightly more than his right even when he wasn’t tired. 

And more than anything else… 

He couldn’t find a partner. Nobody really cared enough to put in the effort to interact with him, turned away by his seemingly obnoxious character. 

Even the people who actually looked under his facade didn’t particularly admire him. If they did, he would have a girlfriend by now.

_Or boyfriend. It doesn’t even matter._

_Mein gott, I’m desperate. But I also have standards._

Gilbert didn’t even realize that he was approaching measure 116. It would be embarrassing to be the only one playing after everyone around him had already stopped just because of a silly daydream, so he tried to keep his eyes fixated on the music. 

Tried. 

No matter where he looked, Gilbert’s mind refused to concentrate on what it was supposed to, constantly jumping around from one thought to another. He had never had this problem before. When it was time for music, it was time for music. Gilbert _thought_ his brain had accepted this.

Maybe it was something about that _gottverdammt_ violinist that was making him this way. 

Or maybe it was just his thought playing tricks on him, putting him under the false pretense that he actually had a chance with somebody like Roderich. 

_Where’s that confidence when I actually need it?_

_Scheiße. Was winking at him the wrong move? He probably thinks I’m just another one of those cocky playboys who makes passes at anyone who walks by._

_Great. I messed up. Again._

Gilbert messed up on more than just one thing, as it appeared. He accidentally held out his last note far longer than he was supposed to at the end of measure 116 as he lost himself in his thoughts, unintentionally making his embarrassing fear a reality. Fortunately, the mistake wasn’t too obvious. 

Mr. Vargas put down his baton, a faraway, pensive look in his eyes. He mumbled a few things to himself, most likely evaluating the audition itself rather than the entire performance as a whole. 

Gilbert looked at Roderich again, although, in his defense, he was just curious of the Austrian’s thought of his own performance. Roderich looked as though he was fighting to keep his face neutral, but the pride and satisfaction in his small half-smile were enough to tip anyone off as to how he actually felt. 

Gilbert felt something like… relief? He wanted to get to know the violinist, and for that to happen, the violinist needed to land a spot in the Philharmonic first. If someone as nitpicky as Roderich was pleased with his playing, the conductor certainly would be too. Right? 

He hoped so. For a reason that he refused to completely accept.

_Am I getting attached?_

Gilbert didn’t want to get attached to Roderich. He would get infatuated with what he _thought_ the violinist was like; drawn in by a mere shell. Who knows what would lay on the inside? Greed? Irritation? Contempt? Elitism?

_Maybe. But I’m never gonna know unless I try and find out._

A decision was made right then and there.

Gilbert was going to try. Embark on a quest to find that special thing that everyone around him seemed to gain effortlessly.

Love.

 _Mutual_ love. But for it to be mutual, he had to make sure Roderich liked him, too.

_Not just the person he thinks I am._

_But… who_ **_does_ ** _he think I am?_ Gilbert thought for a few moments and then felt another pang of regret. _An idiot, probably._

_An idiot who likes to lurk around desolate pubs alone in the dead of night._

“I’ll need some more time to think about it,” Mr. Vargas finally declared.

Roderich’s face fell. Somehow, Gilbert felt panic rise in his own chest, as well. It was almost like their hearts were one; sharing emotions.

“I understand,” Roderich said quietly. Any trace of a smile had vanished. The passionate glint in his eyes had left. 

Roderich may have claimed he understood. But Gilbert certainly didn’t.

It should have been a resoundingly easy decision for the conductor to make. Granting the talented new violinist leadership in the violin section would have most likely been of benefit to the group as a whole. Violins did have an important role to play in basically every piece, with first violins being a huge priority. 

_This is wrong. What is Vargas thinking?_

_Pretty-boy’s more than qualified._

How did Gilbert know for sure, exactly?

_I…_

_I guess I don’t know that either._

_Funny how things work out, huh?_

“Ah-ah-ah!” Mr. Vargas shook his head and flashed another exuberant grin. “Don’t deflate on me, yet! Great things take time, young musician.” He tapped his forehead with his index finger. “Like this machine, right here. I never said ‘no,’ did I?”

Roderich wasn’t even looking at the conductor, anymore. He looked so dejected like he had been robbed. 

But in his mind, he had. Robbed of opportunity. 

The mentality that Roderich had gone through life harboring was that if he _was_ good enough, the audition should have left the judge without a single doubt that his skill was unmatched. Anything less than that was just another failure. 

Was he just another failure?

“Now, we’ve got two more hours left on the clock to make magic happen,” Mr. Vargas said enthusiastically. He made eye contact with Roderich. “And, Edelstein, how about I cut you a deal?”

Roderich raised one eyebrow up, ever so slightly as if to question the statement itself without appearing too brash. 

“By 10:00 AM, I’ll let you know of the final verdict,” the conductor declared. The dramatics of the situation was, well, excessively dramatic. It reminded Gilbert of the atmosphere one would witness in a legal drama.

“Thank you,” Roderich responded meekly. His violin had since gone into a resting position, with the bow held tight in trembling fingers. 

Not all hope was lost. 

“Mhmm! Now, I have some things to say about our first run-through.” Mr. Vargas pointed at Gilbert, who accepted the attention with ease. “Beilschmidt, the enthusiasm in your playing is great. _But,_ you may need to tone it down just a little.”

“Sure thing, boss!” Gilbert accepted the critique playfully, evening doing a little salute with his index and middle finger. He made it a point to make sure he wasn’t imitating a _certain_ hand gesture from around 1933 to 1945. 

“And, Natalya, you were out of tune at the beginning of 27. Remember, you have to be ready to play at all times.”

Natalya gritted her teeth and nodded stiffly, trying desperately to keep her eyebrows from pushing themselves down into a glare. She was the current concertmaster and wasn’t exactly used to taking any commentary that wasn’t glowing praise from the conductor. 

If that didn’t cry ‘we totally need a new first-chair violin,’ Gilbert didn’t know what did. 

“As for everybody else, remember what technique you should be using. This is staccato,” Mr. Vargas emphasized. 

The conductor continued dishing out advice and commentary to at least one musician in every section, making no exception for his precious grandsons with the saxophones. 

The hour whittled away slowly as the orchestra went through re-run after re-run. 

Whatever they were playing didn’t quite sound like _Allegretto._ It had the same notes and rhythms but just wasn’t the same. Mr. Vargas had mentioned it earlier and from then on had tried making attempts at pinpointing what was wrong. It wasn’t an easy task, of course. 

Gilbert’s patience was beginning to run dry. Based on their facial expressions, he could tell that everyone else felt similarly.

“I could be doing magic with my trio, right now. This is a total drag,” groaned somebody from the viola section. The voice could be identified as coming from Vlad, whose trio included two other ‘special’ (or as Gilbert liked to say, mentally ill) individuals: Arthur and Lukas. 

“Shh! Rehearsal time is for rehearsal, not complaining!” hissed the person sitting next to Vlad. He had black hair with a middle part and green eyes but lacked any strange accessories or hair curls that made him stand out. 

Mr. Vargas rubbed his temples and popped an Aspirin. “Everyone, I’m beginning to think we might need to take a short break from this piece…”

_Short break? We might as well just drop it._

Gilbert discreetly slipped his phone out of his back pocket and pressed the power button. They technically were supposed to keep their devices powered off as to not be a distraction, but he was never really one to follow the rules. 

The time was 9:48 AM. Gilbert felt an itch in the back of his mind, telling him that there was something he was forgetting. 

_Oh._

OH.

_Right!_

Mr. Vargas promised that he’d let Roderich know of his placement by the end of the session, which was at 10:00. 

In approximately 12 minutes. 

Apparently, time was able to fly even when they weren’t having any fun. 

The room erupted into chatter, the musicians conversing amongst themselves as to what they thought should happen. From what Gilbert was able to hear, the popular opinion involved rejecting _Allegretto_ as part of the concert program entirely. However, some advocated for it, claiming that they didn’t have much time left in the first place and needed to get something together before the day of the performance came.   
“Yo, Mr. V! We should do an awesome march with loads of trumpet! That’d be sick, right?” suggested Alfred.

“Your idea is ridiculous. Since when have you ever heard a march with strings in it?” retorted Ivan. 

“That’s the point! Let’s boot ‘em all out! Deportation style!” Alfred cheered. “ _Especially_ you, commie.”

“Big _bruder_? What’s going on?” Lili asked tentatively, almost hiding behind her French horn. 

“Doesn’t matter when you’re neutral,” responded Baasch without missing a beat.

Suddenly, Gilbert wished for his own brother. Ludwig could yell his signature “ _everybody shut up!_ ” and silence the room in an instant. 

“Everyone! Quiet, please!” Mr. Vargas ordered, his voice dominating the melting pot of the rest. 

“This rehearsal is hereby over, you’re all dismissed. Just a reminder, we have our next session today at 4:30. I’ll update you on our music situation, then. But, before that, make sure to hold on to _Allegretto_.”

The moment the conductor stopped speaking, everyone began to pack up their things eagerly. Nobody found the idea of shuffling through potential pieces for hours on end a very appealing way to spend their time, and neither did Gilbert. 

However, there was a certain somebody who felt differently. 

Roderich hurriedly packed up his violin and slipped _Allegretto_ into an empty spot in his case. He rushed over to the conductor’s podium and said something that Gilbert couldn’t quite hear.

_Probably asking about whether he made the cut._

Gilbert was curious, too. So he decided to stay for just a _little_ bit longer than he had to, hoping to “accidentally” overhear bits of their discussion.   
He slowly made his way to the door, deliberately approaching it at an almost turtle-like pace. 

“Idea, you say?”

“Yes, sir. I, uh, was just thinking that…”

Suddenly, Gilbert felt a strong yank on his arm pull him to the door and drag him out into the hall. 

“Ow! The hell was that for?” he asked in an accusatory tone. 

Lovino glared at him. “First of all, dumb-dumb, you were eavesdropping. Did your mother ever teach you how to act in public?”

Gilbert flushed a light shade of pink. Was he really that obvious? “ _Ja…_ ”

“And, secondly, my stupid brother is making me give you a ride back, too. I’m not waiting for any longer than I have to, so let’s go.”

With that, they were off. Lovino’s fingernails dug into Gilbert’s forearm, leaving pink, crescent-shaped wounds, in the pale skin. 

Gilbert spared one last glance at Roderich through the window as he was hauled further down the hallway.   
Roderich was saying something. No—explaining something. Whatever he was doing, he was doing it excitedly. 

He looked so intelligent. His eyes began to sparkle again.

Gilbert could think of a million other different things he wished he could say out loud.

_Maybe someday…_

A wistful smile formed on his face. 

_Someday, I will._


	7. Interlude: Elysian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Artistic; creative.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another chapter, where the title of this story actually begins to make sense!  
> You get to see a little bit of Elizaveta's perspective in here too. I realized that her relationship with Roderich is best described with another song. "Circles" by Post Malone fits almost perfectly :)  
> Again, here's the link where you can listen to Bacchanale.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vjRiLKSPbqc  
> Enjoy!

Thoughts. Thoughts and ideas filled Roderich’s mind in an instant, to the point where he was genuinely concerned that they would overflow. Words formed in his mouth, both desperate and eager to leap off his tongue and into the air. 

The only thing that was really keeping these words bound was Roderich’s stiff sense of formality and courtesy. He didn’t know Mr. Vargas well enough to address him so easily as one of Paris Philharmonic’s long-time musicians might have. 

So, Roderich opted to explain in the most dignified way he could. 

He took a quick scan of the room. It was mostly empty, save for Katyusha hurriedly organizing paperwork near Vargas’ desk and a few others. The stands were all bare, not a single sheet of music was left behind. Roderich took an unusual amount of satisfaction in this. Seeing music being abandoned like a torn-up kite evoked something negative deep in his psyche, planting seeds of displeasure that would eventually grow into flowering plants of contempt. 

_Music is art_ , Roderich reasoned. _Showing that degree of disrespect towards that art, you might as well just be spitting on the Mona Lisa._

In his small scrutinization of the practically vacant rehearsal hall, Roderich’s gaze was snagged by a certain something he saw through the window looking out into the exterior hall. 

A pair of blood-red rubies, staring straight at him. Accompanying those rubies was a pale face, and accompanying that face was a head of snow-coloured hair. 

_It’s him. His surname is… Beilschmidt? Yes, that’s it. How German. Stereotypically so. Although, his appearance doesn’t fit that same cliché._

Beilschmidt wasn’t all muscle and hard features. HIs hair was certainly not blonde, nor were his eyes icy blue. 

Roderich should have been wary. Why exactly was this stranger staring at him through the window? Especially after their interaction at _The Forest Alcove_ the night before…

He wasn’t even the slightest bit annoyed by Beilschmidt’s gaping. Had it been anyone else, would his reaction have been the same?

 _I must ignore it_ , Roderich concluded in his mind. _There are more important things to focus on, right now. I have to ignore the fact that he winked at me at the beginning of rehearsal and how he whispered to me last night and how his eyes are just so—_

It was counterproductive. The more Roderich tried to ignore Beilschmidt, the more Beilschmidt was weaved through his memory. It was like he was trapped inside a spider’s web, writhing to escape but only getting more and more stuck. 

_Nonsense! Absolute nonsense!_ Roderich shook his head, as if that would rid it of the intrusive thoughts that were plaguing it. 

He got up from his seat and approached the conductor’s podium, hoping his stride was strong enough to pass himself off as self-assured. 

Roderich cleared his throat quietly, snapping Mr. Vargas’ attention away from his file folder and towards him. “Excuse me, Mr. Vargas, may I speak with you for a moment?” he asked. 

Mr. Vargas eyed him skeptically. “This isn’t about your placement within the Orchestra, is it? I’m sorry, Edelstein, but I’m more than a little bit swamped right now.”

Roderich shook his head, half-lying with the gesture. While he was curious as to whether his concertmaster role had been secured or not, he wasn’t buzzing with anticipation like before. What he was more concerned with was something else. 

“No, not exactly,” Roderich said. “It’s actually about a different issue… I’m under the assumption that it is a conflict of interest for you.” 

“Really?” Mr. Vargas put down his pen. “In that case, go on.”

“You’ve arranged for us—” Roderich corrected himself. “The orchestra, I mean, to perform _Allegretto_ from Beethoven’s 7th, right?”

“That was my original proposal, yes, but I’m starting to have second doubts.” 

Hope triggered a burst of adrenaline through Roderich’s veins. 

_This is perfect, then._

“I, uh, don’t intend to sound patronizing, but I have another idea in regard to potential pieces.” Roderich kept his head held high, not letting his chin drop even the slightest bit. 

“And?”

_And…_

Roderich’s family prided themselves on their excellent diplomacy skills. They were said to have ancestry leading back to Austrian nobility, after all. These kinds of negotiations and social skills should have come as second nature to him. 

And they did. Usually. 

But now, of all times, those skills seemed to vanish. 

“ _Bacchanale_ ,” Roderich said suddenly. “Camille Saint-Saëns. Have you heard of him?”

A look of recognition flashed across the conductor’s face. “I believe so. That opera… Samson and Delilah, was it?”

Roderich nodded enthusiastically. “Yes. I have actually had the pleasure of watching it at the Metropolitan a few years back. It was nothing short of a masterpiece.”

“Interesting. I’d like to see where this is going,” Mr. Vargas remarked in such a way that Roderich didn’t exactly know who he was addressing. “ _Bacchanale_ , you said?”

“Yes. _Danse Bacchanale_ is featured in the third act, if my memory serves correctly,” Roderich confirmed. “You may be able to find a recording of it on the internet.” 

“If you say so.” Mr. Vargas pursed his lips and pulled out his phone. He clicked on the small, white, and red HetaTube icon and quickly something into the search bar. 

The moment the first few notes of the piece became audible, Roderich felt his entire body tense up. It made him feel like he was a teenage girl, showing her favorite song to her friends hoping they would find it just as catchy as she does. 

Mr. Vargas listened to the next eight minutes of the song with an unreadable expression on his face. Was it pensive? Intrigued? Conflicted? Roderich didn’t have the slightest. 

Meanwhile, Roderich tried to allow himself to loosen up. That was easier said than done. He decided to just keep his mouth shut and his hands folded in front of him, not wanting to interrupt the listening experience. Subconsciously, his eyes darted to the small window from which he had noticed Beilschmidt looking out from before. Nobody was there anymore. 

Suddenly, Roderich’s attention became invested in the music one again. The piece had reached its final crescendo, morphing into what could only be defined as a blaring conglomerate of cymbals, flute, castanets, tuba, and much more.

And then it stopped. Roderich felt his heart leap in anticipation. It was a good kind of nervous, actually. 

_It’s so odd. I haven’t listened to Bacchanale in such a long time… how did it just pop into mind now?_

“This,” Mr. Vargas began, “is good. Elysian. I like it.” 

Roderich smiled. “As do I.”

“Thank you for suggesting it to me, Edelstein. I was really caught between a rock and a hard place, before.”

“It was my pleasure. Although, I am curious, would you consider this as an actual possibility for our concert?” Roderich asked. He wasn’t too sure of whether the conductor would be inclined to switch pieces when the concert was merely weeks away. 

“Hm…” Mr. Vargas tapped his chin with one finger thoughtfully. “I never really thought of myself to be much of an indecisive person, but it seems like I am. I’m really not sure about what we’re going to be doing for the concert, yet.”

Roderich should have just accepted that and left, muttering a polite goodbye in his departure. _That would be the conventional thing to do_ , he thought. _But is it really the_ **_best_ ** _thing to do?_

No. No it wasn’t. He had been shown time and time again that the Paris Philharmonic didn’t operate as a traditional orchestra did. 

_I need to impress._

“But would you have any objections to performing _Bacchanale_?” Roderich pressed. He really didn’t want to push anything, but he knew that stubbornness did pay off at times. 

“It’s a beautiful piece, but it requires a tremendous amount of effort and skill to make those quick articulations,” Mr. Vargas said waveringly. 

Roderich knew that he was talking about. _Bacchanale_ had a considerably fast tempo, and the section from measure six and one was chock full of rapid sixteenth notes. “From what I’ve heard, this orchestra is quite masterly,” he evaluated. “Wouldn’t you say that they are more than able to play such notes?”

Mr. Vargas thought for a few moments. “You _do_ have a point there... “ He drummed his fingers on the podium’s metal surface and then put his index finger up. “I think we might be onto something. This might just work, Edelstein.” 

“I’m very glad to hear that,” Roderich responded politely. He was more than just glad, as anyone might be. After all, it’s not every day that the conductor of one of France’s most prestigious orchestras takes an unemployed violinist’s advice. 

“But there are a few more details that have to be worked out. Firstly, if we want to make this happen, there needs to be a _lot_ of cooperation between the violins and flutes. Maybe even the clarinets, too.”

Roderich then realized something. He didn’t know anyone else in the orchestra, with the only exception being Antonio. 

_And him. That white-haired flautist. But to be fair, I know nothing about him besides his last name._

“That shouldn’t be too much of a problem, as far as I’m concerned.” 

“Alright. Then, it looks like we have everything in order,” Mr. Vargas proclaimed. “Katyusha, can you put in an order for _Danse Bacchanale_ ’s score? It _is_ opera music, so it might be a little more expensive than usual.” 

“I’m on it!” Katyusha exclaimed. 

Suddenly, another curiosity was shoved to the front of Roderich’s mind. It had been present since the moment he walked into _Château_ , but didn’t bother rearing its head into the list of priorities. 

“Mr. Vargas, why does everybody here speak English?” Roderich wondered. “If you don’t mind me asking,” he added quickly. “Considering that we _are_ in Paris, I just found it somewhat peculiar.” 

The conductor chuckled and smiled warmly. “I must say, nobody’s ever asked me that before,” he said. “But, if you’re curious, just take a look at all of our musicians. No two are the same, not even those who are siblings. They all have different skill sets, personalities, accents, and of course—nationalities. The only person who’s actually from here is Francis. So, we came to the collective decision to use English as a predominant language.” 

Roderich remembered the boisterous, blonde, American trumpet-player. “Are you sure that it was _really_ a mutual decision?”

Vargas laughed again. “For the most part, anyway. Alfred does have his ways of persuasion, I suppose.” 

Roderich was glad that he had taken English lessons during his youth years. He had also been learning French in the months leading up to his move from Austria, only to now realize that they would basically be futile. 

_Well, being trilingual isn’t a bad thing, by any means._

“That’s a coincidence, actually, because I had a question for you, too, Edelstein,” Mr. Vargas began.

Roderich adjusted his glasses and brushed a speck of dust off his sleeve. “Yes?”

“Would you consider yourself a good leader?”

To say Roderich was confused would be an understatement. “Erm… yes, I believe so.”

“Excellent. In that case, I have one more question.”

“Of course.”

“Okay, then,” the conductor said. “Roderich Edelstein. Are you ready to be the Paris Philharmonic’s concertmaster?”

━━━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━━

Elizaveta stared at her phone’s screen. The screen was black, showing nothing but her own reflection back to her. She didn’t exactly know how or what she was supposed to feel at the moment. 

_He’s going to do it, again._

She and Roderich had never been too close. Their relationship was precarious and sometimes not the healthiest, unless constantly engaging in arguing matches was considered healthy. 

Elizaveta wanted somebody she could love. She thought she had hit the jackpoint, that night when she met Roderich. A princely, dignified, character, was what she thought she had found. 

And she had. Although, there was only one small thing that had put such a damper on their love. 

He was a musician. A popular musician, at that. His days were spent practicing, his weekends were spent performing, and his holidays were spent traveling. All for music. 

Did Elizaveta really mean that little to him? Was playing the violin or piano rank with more importance than his own wife? 

The conclusion she had come to by asking such a question was frightening, so much so that she didn’t even want to accept the fact. 

But she knew that she eventually had to. 

_He’s joining another one._

A pinprick of guilt stabbed in the back of Elizaveta’s mind. Why was she behaving this way? She should have just been happy for Roderich. 

And she really, truly, wished she could be. But she couldn’t.

Elizaveta felt neglected. Like an old doll sitting on a table at a garage sale, waiting for someone to come by and…

And _what_? The simile was cut short by her own uncertainty. 

Was she just a difficult person to love? Sure, she might be stubborn and indignant at times, but she was a genuinely nice person.

 _No,_ she thought, _it isn’t that._ People were capable of being attracted to her. As brief as it may have been, the quick relationship from middle school had proved at. 

_Then again, that was Gilbert. Gilbert’s standards aren’t necessarily that high._

A warm feeling glowed in Elizaveta’s chest at the thought of her old friend, but it was gradually replaced by sadness. She hadn’t spoken to Gilbert in so long. 

_I never even said goodbye to him before I moved to Austria._

Another realization came to light. 

_I didn’t say goodbye to Roderich, either._


	8. Interlude: Serendipity, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finding something good without looking for it.

Gilbert knew precisely what he wanted, and when he wanted it:

_Sleep. Now._

_Gottverdammt, I'm tired._

The moment he arrived at his apartment, a wave of exhaustion crashed over him, blurring his thoughts and making his eyelids feel incredibly heavy. 

"Hey, bruder, I'm gonna be in my room for a while," Gilbert announced. "Don't interrupt, kay?"

Ludwig looked up at Gilbert from where he was sitting on the couch, his expression doubtful. "Well, considering the fact that you didn't comply with a similar warning I gave you last night, I'm inclined to believe you're holding a double standard."

Gilbert scratched the back of his neck sheepishly. Ludwig's argument was definitely a solid one. Gilbert's ignorance led him to enter his brother's bedroom (without warning, on top of that) and find Ludwig and Feliciano doing... _private_ activities. 

But, to be fair, Gilbert's phone died halfway through the call, not allowing him to understand the message fully. 

Ludwig sighed. "Fine. I won't bother you." He glanced at his watch quickly. "But I'm going to get lunch with Feliciano soon, so you will have to set an alarm for yourself." 

Gilbert nodded and flashed Ludwig a thumbs up, although he couldn't help but be a little concerned about that small detail. He wouldn't put it past himself to sleep right through even the most obnoxious of alarms, not to mention that accidentally missing the orchestra's 4:30 rehearsal session wouldn't end well for him. 

_Mein Gott, what am I saying? It'll be fine, my awesome internal clock never fails me!_

It has, actually. On multiple different instances. Still, Gilbert's crushing ego wouldn't let him admit that to himself. 

"Ja, I'll manage," Gilbert mumbled to himself as he clumsily walked over to the hallway. Right before he opened the door, he cupped both hands over his mouth and called out to Ludwig. "Have a nice date!"

Ludwig averted his eyes and frowned, obviously embarrassed. "It's not a date!"

"Mhmm, whatever you say!" Gilbert flung open the door and entered his bedroom. It was (unsurprisingly) exactly how he left it, with the exception of a small, yellow, bird, resting on his pillow. 

"So adorable..." Gilbert patted the bird on its fluffy little head, cooing to it in a voice that he wouldn't dare let anyone else hear for the sake of keeping his dignity intact. 

"Y'know, Gilbird, if you were a hot guy, that'd be awesome."

Gilbird chirped in response, his input not very valuable. 

Gilbert gazed wistfully out the window, still stroking the bird's head. He imagined what it would be like if Gilbird magically turned into a handsome man, with perfect features and milky skin and—

Suddenly, a different image popped into his mind. An image of a person, who just so happened to also be a handsome man. 

This man had pale skin and glossy, chocolate-brown hair. His eyes were vivid and deep, coloured with a rich purple hue. 

This man was—

_Roderich. Roderich Edelstein._

Really, Gilbert was somewhat embarrassed. He hadn't even truly interacted with the violinist, for God's sake! And, yet...

 _He's just_ — _different. I swear, there's something about that Edelstein that I..._

_that I..._

_Admire?_

_Appreciate?_

_Or maybe..._

_Lo_ —

No. No, no, no. There was _no_ way this was happening.

That four-letter word. Gilbert felt sick just hearing it. 

_There's no point. I'm just digging myself a deeper grave._

_I can't fall in love. I can't. If I do—_

_I'm going to just fuck everything up before it even starts._

The sound of the front door opening and closing rang through Gilbert’s ears, snapping him out of his musing. 

_Maybe if I was just someone who he could love, too..._

_Things would be fine._

He laid his head on the pillow, reveling in the bed’s comfort. 

Gilbird fluttered over to the small pile of cotton balls laid out on the windowsill, most likely having the same idea as Gilbert. 

_I can just forget about everything._

_For a little while._

Gilbert closed his eyes and let himself drift off, into a deep, peaceful, sleep. 

━━━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━━

“Wow. What happened to you?” 

Elizaveta sighed and brushed a piece of hair away from her face. “Business as usual.” 

Emma raised one eyebrow, noticing the large stack of files in Elizaveta’s arms. “Usual seems like a little bit of an understatement, Liz.” 

“You think so?” Elizaveta plopped the files onto the edge of the countertop and groaned. “Eduard doesn’t have the best time-management skills, apparently.” 

“Yeah, I can see that,” Emma remarked before typing something on her keyboard. 

Elizaveta couldn’t help but envy her friend’s carefree nature— being a receptionist, Emma didn’t have to deal with hours of mind-numbing paperwork. 

Elizaveta glared at the files with frustration and confusion. She had dealt with much worse, before. In fact, in her first week working at Lexial, she was made to assist with a major case concerning murder allegations via pipeline. 

_Murder allegations! Honestly, who in their right mind would place such a heavy case in my hands?_

Regardless, Elizaveta was lucky to get such a secure position after moving to France. Lexial was considered one of the top-notch law firms in all of Paris, after all. 

There was just one little thing that made her job much more difficult:

_Roderich._

Before arriving at the firm that morning, Elizaveta had spent a lot of her time lamenting over her husband’s actions. 

And, as it seemed, the lamenting would follow her to her workplace, too. 

_He should have just…_

_Communicated._

_I wish we could have a regular conversation, for once._

_What if I’m in the wrong?_ Elizaveta wondered. _Am I just not doing this correctly? Is there anything I_ **_could_ ** _do to salvage this?_

_But…_

_Is what we have now not even_ **_worth_ ** _being salvaged?_

Elizaveta really, _really,_ didn’t want to accept the idea that formed in her mind. The idea that…

Perhaps the torch she held for Roderich had just… 

Burnt out. 

_Neither of us is getting anything out of this. I mean, the intercourse was nice and all, but what if he didn’t actually enjoy it as much as he said he did?_

Elizaveta was beginning to doubt everything; the reality of the situation was bleak, but clear nonetheless. 

_Maybe this was all just a big mistake._

_A big mistake that I haven’t a clue how to correct._

Unfortunately, there was no time for Elizaveta to reflect. She had a job to do, and she intended to do it. 

Elizaveta picked up the files once more and sighed. “Well, I’ll be off. Court documents would draft themselves.”

Emma smirked and gave Elizaveta a reassuring nod. “Remember to have fun!” she retorted playfully. 

Elizaveta rolled her eyes, pretending to be annoyed at the good-natured banter. “Haha. Fun. I _wish_.” 

As she advanced down the hall towards her small office (which wasn’t technically an actual office, but rather an empty meeting room that nobody bothered to use,) Elizaveta felt her body begin to stiffen. 

There were so many thoughts and emotions and uncertainties pilling up inside her mind to the point where she wanted nothing more than to just slam her face against her desk and scream. 

Obviously, doing that wouldn’t do much for Elizaveta (except earning her odd looks from her fellow employees and a bruise the size of Ukraine on her forehead.) However, there was an alternative that seemed much more appealing.

_I just need to…_

_Talk. Vent._

_Whatever._

Elizaveta entered her office and placed the files on the desk. The small clock on the wall ticked away, displaying the time as 10:23 AM. 

_I could take a break for lunch and have some time to talk all of this out with somebody._

There was one minor hitch in her plan: 

Elizaveta really didn’t have any friends. 

Besides Emma, who despite being one of the few people she knew at Lexial, wasn’t exactly to be trusted with confidential information. If there’s one thing the Belgian woman loved more than waffles, it was gossip. 

Moving to Paris brought new opportunities, but it also brought its fair share of challenges. Back in Vienna, Elizaveta was actually quite the socialite, having one of the city’s most distinguished musicians as her partner. 

Really, she couldn’t help but feel so lonely. While Paris was a city of culture and art, it certainly wasn’t Vienna. There wasn’t a single familiar face in the crowd. 

Elizaveta brought out her phone, entering in the passcode, and staring blankly at the screen covered in colorful icons. 

She didn’t have any new messages—not even from her parents. Hell, even that annoying vampire-wannabe wasn’t pestering her. 

Elizaveta mentally kicked herself. She had a long-time rivalry with that Romanian boy, which didn’t cease even after her graduation from high school. 

Yet, she _missed_ him? 

_This is just getting ridiculous! Am I really that desperate?_

Elizaveta hadn’t heard from Vlad in a while. She opened the messaging app, clicking on his contact. The last conversation they had was ended by her, with a string of insults in Hungarian. 

_I wonder what he’s up to, now._

_Knowing him, it’s probably nothing good._

_But…_

Out of curiosity, Elizaveta exited the messaging app and opened Twitter. She was actually quite active on the social media platform, once upon a time, but recently she had found herself too busy to engage in it. 

Elizaveta scrolled through her feed for a little while, finding it somewhat boring. Deeming the investigation as fruitless, she moved her finger towards the home button of her phone, ready to leave the app entirely. 

Then, something caught her eye. The notification icon was lit up, indicating a new alert. Elizaveta clicked on the icon. 

* * *

**_Vlad the magician (I’m legit, I swear)_ ** _is now following you!_

* * *

That certainly was an interesting development. Elizaveta wasn’t aware that Vlad also had a Twitter, although it seemed like a quite daft assumption to make considering that practically everybody had a social media at that point. 

Elizaveta scoffed as she read his name.

_Legit, huh. Or so he claims._

_Moron._

She clicked on the account’s name with the intention of scrutinizing Vlad’s profile further. 

_Maybe he joined a cult or picked up another weird hobby. That seems just like him._

Apparently, none of Elizaveta’s predictions were correct. Vlad’s most recent post was a selfie of him smiling devilishly, placing bunny ears on the weary-looking, black-haired, man sitting next to him. 

* * *

_Almost done with rehearsal!!!!!!_ (＿Δ＿) _nikola looks so annoyed lol_

* * *

Elizaveta stared at the picture for a few moments, a little confused. 

_Rehearsal? Rehearsal for what?_

Elizaveta was inclined to presume the worst possible situation Vlad could be in, which led her to come to a certain conclusion.

_He must be a stripper! A stripper who’s rehearsing for some sort of show!_

“Pfft—imagine letting yourself sink _that_ low in life,” Elizaveta muttered under her breath, chuckling mischievously. 

However, these deductions were soon proved false, much to Elizaveta’s chagrin. Upon closer inspection, it was evident that the black-haired man (supposedly Nikola) was holding a viola, while what seemed to be Vlad’s bow barely made it into the frame. 

_He’s in an orchestra?!_

_How?_

_Since when?_

Elizaveta glared at the image, sending flames of hatred into those annoying russet eyes. 

_So he’s actually doing something with his life._

Her gaze dropped from the image itself to the people mentioned in the post. The list was brief; including Nikola’s account and—

_The Paris Philharmonic._

_My god—_

Elizaveta sat there for a minute, still trying to process what she was seeing. 

_How did Vlad manage to get into the Paris Philharmonic?!_

She was a little bit irritated that things were going so well for Vlad. He was her archnemesis, after all. It was nothing out-of-the-ordinary for Elizaveta to wish for her enemy’s failure, but…

That nagging feeling in the back of her mind didn’t go away. In fact, it seemed to magnify. 

Especially at the mention of—

_Orchestra._

Music was beautiful. It was always supposed to be like that, and it was, but sometimes Elizaveta couldn’t help but feel that music was just tearing her relationship with Roderich apart. 

How could something so magnificent be so destructive at the same time? 

_He said he was looking into joining another orchestra..._

_They'd accept him right away, without a doubt._

_With music and rehearsal and concerts and fame, he'll be incredibly busy._

_And I..._

_I'll just be abandoned, I guess._

Elizaveta sighed, wishing she could just disappear. The feeling was an all-too-familiar one, sadly enough. 

_What happened to me? I used to be so..._

_So much_ **more**.

_Now I’m just wasting my time getting hung up over a man that I don’t even know if I love anymore._

Elizaveta scrolled further down Vlad's timeline, determined to ignore the mountain of insecurities looming before her. 

Another one of his posts further confirmed Vlad's involvement with the Paris Philharmonic. This post was from a few months back and had another picture attached, not unlike the previous one. 

* * *

_wtf_ [ _@awesomesince1525_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dQw4w9WgXcQ&ab_channel=RickAstleyVEVO) _brought his bird to the chateau_ 😂😂😂

* * *

The picture was an image of a white-haired man with a small, yellow, chick perched on his shoulder. The man held a flute in his hands and stared at the camera with a smirk. 

_Gilbert?_

_First, it was Vlad, now him?_

Elizaveta took another look at the photo, noting the familiar facial structure and features of the person. 

_It's really him, isn't it?_

Gilbert looked... a little different. The last time Elizaveta had seen her German (or as he claimed, Prussian) friend was when they had graduated high school. 

_He used to be such a twiggy little thing, but now..._

Gilbert looked slightly more toned, although the overall shape of his body was similar to what it was before. 

Still, five years really did change a lot. 

And in Gilbert's case, it was for the better. 

Unlike with Vlad, Elizaveta felt a burst of pride knowing that Gilbert had actually found something he was passionate about. They were very close, back before they parted ways. Even after it became clear that their dynamic wouldn’t fit under the umbrella of “romance” very well, there were no hard feelings between the two. 

Elizaveta made another deduction. 

_Gilbert’s in the Paris Philharmonic, which would mean…_

_He’s here. In France._

It was a little hard to believe that there was a chance that Vlad or Gilbert could be wandering around somewhere within Elizaveta’s proximity. However, evidently, fate seemed to have a strange way of bringing people together. 

Elizaveta thought about Roderich again. 

_Or pushing them apart._

Elizaveta brought her index finger towards the phone’s screen once again, clicking on the account that was tagged in Vlad’s post. She was brought to a different profile; this one had a photo of a baby chick balancing itself on the rim of a half-empty beer glass as its profile picture. 

Elizaveta quickly realized just how incredibly, ridiculously, unbelievably _Gilbert_ everything was. The pinned tweet, the tag, the username—

Everything. 

_Oh, god. I miss him._

_I miss him so much._

Even the parts of Gilbert that were obnoxious and arrogant— Elizaveta missed them, too. 

Perhaps it was just the familiarity of it all that pushed her to click on the small, letter-shaped icon to the left of the follow button, which took her to the private messaging system. 

Ignoring all the possibilities of seeming childish, clingy, or desperate, Elizaveta began typing out a message. 

She sucked in a deep breath and clicked ‘send.’

* * *

_Hey. how's life?_

* * *

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another chapter, where we got to see some more from Elizaveta's perspective, and Estonia (poor guy, I bet he's swamped) is briefly mentioned.  
> Bulgaria = Nikola  
> Belgium = Emma  
> Lexial = An actual law firm in Paris if I'm not mistaken. They specialize in business and crime-related cases, although the similarities end there.  
> Anyway, Happy Holidays, everyone! Hope you're enjoying them!


	9. Interlude: Serendipity, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gilbert Beilschmidt was 100%, absolutely, _smitten_ with Roderich Edelstein. There was no point denying it, although that certainly wouldn’t stop Gilbert from trying. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we have some platonic PruHun. (When I say platonic, I **mean** platonic. Also, I headcanon that Gil's bi with a lean towards males, so that's that.)  
> Danse Macabre: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XktAN207o9A (There's a good chance you've heard this piece before, but can't remember what it was called.)  
> Danse Bacchanale: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vjRiLKSPbqc  
> https://open.spotify.com/album/0O33XKNb7M9AMlsYDJTMLE highlight=spotify:track:1vgInU9qUZYSW0VT9TJuT6

_“If I’m being honest, Gilbert… I’ve liked you this entire time. Ever since I saw you, that night… I just couldn’t control my feelings.”_

_Gilbert smiled, his fingers tracing the smooth edge of Roderich’s face. “Really, now?”_

_The other man nodded._

_Gilbert had never expected that things would go so well. This was his first time talking to Roderich Edelstein_ _— and that Austrian beauty had_ ** _confessed_ **_to him. He actually_ **confessed**!

_Passion throbbed through Gilbert’s veins, sending a hot flash through his entire body._

_There was one thought in his mind; one thought only._

_Apparently, Edelstein was thinking the same thing._

_“Yes, really,” Roderich confirmed. His violet eyes looked downwards, his face pink with slight embarrassment. “And… and… if you want to… we could— you know...”_

* * *

“Oh, hell yeah! Of course, we can!”

Suddenly, Gilbert’s eyes flew open. 

_Wha…_

_Where is he?_

Gilbert sat up, rubbing his eyes and looking around. Much to his disappointment, his bedroom lacked something. Or, rather, _someone._ A certain Austrian man who had managed to work his way into Gilbert’s dream…

Gilbert looked down at his lap, his eyes widening in realization, then horror. 

So, apparently, that ‘hot flash’ really wasn’t just a figment of his imagination, huh? 

And that would make Roderich Edelstein the first person to ever give Gilbert such an… _interesting_ dream. 

Truthfully, Gilbert was a little ashamed. How could he possibly get aroused by someone he’d never even met before? Besides, knowing the kind of person Edelstein was (based on what he had seen so far,) the violinist would probably just turn his chin up and scoff in disgust if he saw the state Gilbert was currently in. 

On top of that, Gilbert’s dream (and subsequent… issue) had proved something else:

Gilbert Beilschmidt was 100%, absolutely, _smitten_ with Roderich Edelstein. There was no point denying it, although that certainly wouldn’t stop Gilbert from trying. 

Furthermore, there were… _other matters_ to be taken care of.

Gilbert glanced at the digital alarm clock on the side of his bed.

And they had to be taken care of quickly. 

He shoved the blanket aside, confirming his suspicions. 

_Ludwig’s probably back, by now._

Gilbert sighed and got up to make sure his door was locked. 

_Don’t wanna risk Lud or Feli walking in on this._

* * *

Finally, Gilbert had managed to finish up. After throwing away any evidence, he started making his way toward the kitchen, grabbing his phone from the nightstand before leaving. 

He hadn’t felt so good in a long while. 

In the context of sleep, of course. Any other assumptions stemming from that statement would come from someone with their head in the gutter. 

Gilbert yawned as he took a seat on the barstool next to the one his brother was sitting in. “Morning _._ ”

Ludwig furrowed his eyebrows. “It’s nearly 4:00 in the afternoon, Gilbert.”

“Eh, give or take.” Gilbert reached over to steal Ludwig’s mug out of habit, only to stop himself midway. 

_Haha! My awesome energy is so strong, I don’t even need caffeine anymore!_

_Take that, fatigue! I beat you, this time!_

“It’s not coffee,” Ludwig said as if he could read Gilbert’s mind. 

Gilbert shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.” He snatched the mug from Ludwig, finishing off the rest of the liquid for no particular reason (unless being obnoxious counted as one.)

“Tastes like dishwater,” Gilbert commented with a frown. 

Ludwig sighed. “Nobody was forcing you to drink it all.” 

“Wrong,” interjected Gilbert. “My awesome beer-chugging instincts forced me to. Even if this stuff can’t compare to beer.” 

“I can’t say I disagree.” 

The brothers sat in silence for a few moments, before Gilbert finally spoke up. 

“So, where’s Ita-cakes?”

Now, it was Ludwig’s turn to frown. “Feliciano went back to his place. Why?”

“What did you two do, anyway?”

“Well, we went out, walked around, ate lunch, then left.” 

Gilbert made a face. “Nothing more?”

“N-no,” Ludwig stammered. “Why would there be anything more?”

“Aw, come on, West! Did you waste all your energy last night?”

Ludwig felt like his face was on fire. “ _Bruder_! Don’t say those kinds of things!” 

Gilbert grinned like a Cheshire cat in a sort-of knowing way. 

“...besides, it’s not like we would do that in public,” Ludwig added quietly. 

“Kesesese! If I was you, I totally would!” Gilbert cackled. “Feliciano’s an awesome catch. I’m so proud of you, _bruder_.” 

Ludwig buried his face in his hands in shame and remained unresponsive for the next few rounds of teasing (courtesy of his older brother.)

Finally, after the laughter subsided, Gilbert calmed himself down. 

_Man, I’m such a comedy genius. Someone should give me an award for my awesome skills!_

He switched his phone on. 

_3:47_. _I’ve got plenty of time!_

_So, why not just relax?_

Gilbert surfed the internet for some time, scrolling his way through Reddit, Facebook, (even though Alfred insisted it was for ‘old people,’), and HetaTube, where he found a recommended video that piqued his interest. 

For background, Gilbert had been subscribed to multiple HetaTube channels centered around classical music. He even kept tabs on a few channels belonging to other orchestras around France, like the Marseille Philharmonic or Bordeaux Symphony, under the guise that he was simply ‘scoping out the competition.’ 

And, now, sitting in his feed, was a video titled “Saint-Saëns: Danse Bacchanale.” Gilbert had heard of Camille Saint-Saëns before: the French composer famous for creating _Danse Macabre_ , a fast, eerie, and dramatic piece widely regarded by classical music enthusiasts and common folk alike. 

But never, in his eighteen years of playing the flute or his four years of studying music, had Gilbert come across a piece called _Danse Bacchanale._ It was actually a little embarrassing— considering that he had been playing with one of the most prestigious orchestras in Europe and still not have been aware of this piece. 

Still; Gilbert was curious as to whether it was just a slightly-altered re-hash of motifs introduced in Danse Macabre, or something entirely different. 

So, he shoved his earbuds in and pressed play. 

Needless to say, whatever Gilbert had just listened to was incredible. 

_Danse Bacchanale_ wasn’t just ear candy, either. 

It reminded Gilbert of the reason he loved _—_ no, **_adored_ ** _—_ classical music, in the first place. 

Classical music had no lyrics _—_ precisely because it didn’t _need_ lyrics to tell a message. 

What a beautiful thing, indeed. 

“ _Mein Gott,_ ” Gilbert muttered breathily as he gazed at the screen. 

Ludwig stared at his brother. “You look like you’ve just had an epiphany.”

Gilbert chuckled. “That’s not too far from the truth.”

He moved his thumb to the thumbs-up button and clicked it, wishing he could click it a thousand more times. 

Gilbert glanced at the box marked ‘Add a public comment’ for a second before clicking it, too. 

_Why the hell not?_

He typed out one word, because even a million words wouldn’t be enough to describe what he was thinking: **_Awesome._ **

━━━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━━

It was almost the bottom of the hour; 4:30 PM was drawing closer and closer. 

And Gilbert Beilschmidt had stumbled across something else of note. 

Sitting there, amongst hundreds of other notifications, was a message from Elizaveta Héderváry. 

Yes. _That_ Elizaveta Héderváry. The Elizaveta Héderváry who Gilbert had spent most of his childhood and all of his adolescence talking and laughing and scheming with. 

The Elizaveta Héderváry who Gilbert _thought_ was gone; frolicking off somewhere in Austria. 

_She’s not gone._

_Not yet._

Nostalgia seeped through the corners of his mind like sticky caramel, sending him memories of the ‘Good Old Days’ in bittersweet waves. 

Gilbert tapped on the notification. 

* * *

**E:** _Hey. how’s life?_

* * *

Gilbert thought of how he should respond _—_ the possibilities were endless, overwhelmingly so. 

Finally, he settled on something simple. 

* * *

**G:** _Liz? that you?_

* * *

Elizaveta replied back in an instant, leaving Gilbert with practically no time at all to reminisce. 

* * *

**E:** _of course it’s me_

 **E:** _who else would it be?_

 **E:** _idiot_

* * *

Gilbert could almost _hear_ Elizaveta right through the screen; it was a good sign that he hadn’t forgotten her, even after all those years. 

* * *

**G:** _holy shit_

 **G:** _it’s been forever_

 **G:** _so what’s happening?_

 **E:** _yeah…_

 **E:** _I got married to this man from austria_

 **E:** _he’s a musician_

* * *

Roderich was the first person to come to his mind. 

_But— but—_ _it’s totally not him._

 _I mean, that would just be a super,_ **super** , freaky coincidence. 

_Yeah..._

_Plus, there are probably thousands of Austrian musicians wandering around out there._

* * *

**G:** _oh that’s cool_

 **G:** _is he any good?_

 **E:** _yeah, actually_

 **E:** _he was pretty popular back in Vienna_

* * *

_Vienna, huh?_

Gilbert recalled that overheard conversation between Roderich and Arthur from the night prior _—_ the Austrian man had _definitely_ mentioned being a member of the Vienna Chamber Orchestra. 

_It’s just another coincidence!_

_Haha…right?_

* * *

**G:** _nice_ **_💯_ **

**E:** _… did you just use an emoji unironically?_

 **G:** **👌👌** **😂😂😂😂**

 **E:** _oh my god gilbert_

 **E:** _gil this isn’t funny_

 **E:** _not in the slightest_

 **G:** **. . .**

 **G:** **🥺**

* * *

Gilbert giggled like a little girl as he continued to spam Elizaveta with emojis. It’d been quite a while since he had someone to talk to other than Ludwig or Feli _—_ most of his friends at the Paris Philharmonic were too wrapped up in their own lives to take time out of their schedule for him. Even Francis and Antonio were preoccupied. 

* * *

**E:** _if you continue this nonsense I will not hesitate to travel to wherever you are and slap you_

 **G:** _as if you could do that_

 **G:** _Paris is like 1,000 kilometers from Vienna so, ha!_

* * *

Elizaveta gave no immediate response. 

_Damn it! Has she gone offline already?_

* * *

**E:** _paris?_

 **G:** _yep_

 **G:** _you know, where they wear berets and carry around baguettes_

 **E:** _well i can’t say i’m surprised_

* * *

Gilbert quirked an eyebrow, confused by Elizaveta’s most recent message. 

_‘I can’t say I’m surprised’?_

_What?_

_Wait…_

The puzzles were piecing themselves together inside his head. 

For Elizaveta to have sent him a direct message on Twitter, she would’ve had to have gone to his profile, first. 

And on his profile was his timeline. 

And on his timeline was, well…

* * *

 **E:** _uh_

 **E:** _how do I say this…_

 **G:** _what? what???_

 **E:** _ok_

 **E:** _you’re in paris right now, aren't you?_

 **G:** _yeah…_

 **E:** _well,_

 **E:** _so am I._

* * *

Gilbert’s eyes were practically bulging out of their sockets at that point. 

Could such an extraordinary coincidence actually happen? To someone as ordinary as Gilbert, no less? 

To be fair, Gilbert had already witnessed such an instance already; right when the gorgeous violet-eyed musician joined the Paris Philharmonic. But who could have guessed that it would happen _again_? 

It was almost like…

Some sort of serendipity. 

* * *

**G:** _seriously???_

 **G:** _we’re in the same city rn?_

 **E:** _yes, basically_

 **E:** _6059 Émeraude drive_

 **G:** _what?_

 **E:** _that’s my address_

 **E:** _come over, we can catch up over dinner_

* * *

Gilbert thought for a moment. If Elizaveta had been single, the offer would seem like an invitation straight to her bedroom. 

But she wasn’t. Moreover, Elizaveta was a lot of things, but she certainly wasn’t a cheater. 

* * *

**G:** _sounds like a plan._


	10. Interlude: Waking Providence, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coincidences happen.

Roderich could not contain his excitement. He felt like a child on Christmas Eve, giddy with excitement. Anticipation pulsed through his veins in a way that gave him that ‘I’m-on-top-of-the-world’ feeling. 

_ I’m the Paris Philharmonic’s new concertmaster. First chair, first violin.  _

The realization had settled in long ago, but the idea was just as sweet as when it first graced his mind. 

One might say that Roderich was getting a little too lofty— his mind a little too focused on his newly-obtained role in one of France’s greatest orchestras. 

But, you really couldn’t blame him. 

It’s not like there was anything else to think about during that 5-hour buffer period between the first rehearsal session and the next. 

Besides, it was quite a remarkable achievement in itself. It wasn’t every day that you see someone just walk into a prestigious orchestra’s rehearsal hall, exchange a few words with the conductor, and become concertmaster. 

_ I didn’t even audition. I played with the group for some time, but that hardly counts…  _

_ Perhaps Mr. Vargas has no need for soloists?  _

Roderich idly drummed his fingers on his violin case, his head turned towards the window. The midday sun was bright and almost blinding _ — _ keyword:  _ almost.  _ In a spell of laziness, he couldn’t bring himself to use his free hand to shield his eyes from the sun. 

It wasn’t like his glasses could help, anyway; they were fake. Roderich was not visually impaired, yet found it necessary to wear a pair of spectacles in order to make his face look less bland. 

When it all boiled down to it, practically everything about Roderich’s appearance was just a tool to craft a specific, more immaculate, image of him in people's minds. His hair was actually straight _ — _ he spent much more time in the mornings combing it into perfect waves in the morning than he’d like to admit. 

_ It’s not like I’m in need of anyone’s approval! I just…  _

A sick feeling settled in his stomach, and he knew it had nothing to do with the shakiness of the chauffeur’s driving (who let that man behind the wheel, anyway? The cigarette sticking out of his mouth and scar on his right eyebrow certainly weren’t helping his image, either.) 

_ All of this…  _

Roderich took off his glasses, his vision unchanged. 

_ For who?  _

_ Certainly not myself… _

Roderich squirmed. He didn’t want to let such thoughts entertain his mind _ — _ especially when he  _ should  _ have been celebrating his new accomplishment. 

But, at the same time, he felt like an ignorant fool. Like an ostrich who could do nothing but stick its head into the sand and  _ pray  _ all the faults in the world would just magically disappear. 

Ignorance is bliss, yet he found himself questioning the permanence of that bliss. 

Because everyone knew all good things had to come to an end. Eventually. 

“6059  _ Émeraude _ ,  _ ja _ ?” the driver suddenly asked, his voice raspy and laced with a Dutch accent. 

Roderich cleared his throat, a little embarrassed at how caught-off-guard he was at the abrupt speech. “ _ Ja. _ ” 

_ He knows German?  _

Roderich didn’t expect  _ that.  _ Practically everyone else there spoke French, unsurprisingly enough. 

“Knew you weren’t from here,” the driver said, suddenly switching to English. “You stick out like a sore thumb.”

Roderich pursed his lips together, examining himself with a frown. “Do I?”

The other man let out a short snicker but didn’t respond. 

_ Hmph. He could have at least answered my question! _

The rest of the ride was silent until the taxi finally arrived at Roderich’s house.

“20 euros,” the driver demanded. 

Roderich scoffed, refusing to believe what he was hearing. “Sorry?”

“Taxi fare, smarty-pants. Cough it up.”

He shook his head, mouth pulled into a tight frown. “20 euros is irrational. I was only charged 10 on the ride there!” 

The driver chuckled humorlessly and removed the cigarette from his mouth, holding it with his middle and index finger. “That’s how business works, princess.” 

“How miserly!” Roderich scorned, oblivious to his own hypocrisy. “I refuse to pay that much.” 

“20 is the lowest I will go,” the blonde said, his voice growing heavier and heavier. “No more negotiating.”

Roderich groaned (somehow making it sound sophisticated) and handed over the money, albeit very unwillingly. “This is practically robbery.” 

“Mhmm, whatever you say.” The driver pointed his thumb at the door. “Now get out.” 

━━━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━━

“ _ Bonne après-midi _ ,  _ mes amies _ !” Francis greeted, not lacking even an ounce of enthusiasm. 

“Good afternoon,” Roderich responded politely, (or, as politely as he could manage with an overly-enthusiastic Frenchman’s hand wandering over to what could only be described as his ‘vital regions.’)

It was approximately 4:30 PM, and Roderich was back at  _ Château de la Musique  _ for another rehearsal. 

“Ah, time goes by so fast,” Antonio remarked, an absent grin on his face. “I wish I could’ve had another  _ siesta _ !”

“ _ Oui, je sais." _ Francis sighed dramatically. “I could’ve paid the wine cellar a quick little visit if Vargas wasn’t so cruel and opposed to me actually enjoying myself.”

Antonio nodded sympathetically. “Very cruel.” 

“I don’t know about that,” Roderich chimed in, distancing himself slightly from Francis’s touch. “If your way of ‘enjoying yourself’ involves initiating a drunken revel, then perhaps it’s best that you avoid it. You’re a  _ patron _ , for God’s sake. Don’t you have an image to maintain?”

Francis tapped his chin, playing around with the idea in his mind. “Hm… at _Le Château_ , maybe, but outside of these walls…” He grinned, flicking blond locks over his shoulder. “ _Non._ After all, is it a crime to be myself?” 

“...” 

For one of the first times in Roderich’s life, he really didn’t know what to say. 

_ They just… don’t care?  _

_ Would that be an unpopular opinion? _

“Exactly! It’s like some people think everyone is watching them and just  _ waiting  _ for them to slip up,” Antonio mused. 

Roderich stared at the ground, a little unnerved at how Antonio basically described his mental state perfectly. 

_ Was it just me the whole time?  _

_ Was nobody watching? Was nobody judging?  _

A heavy weight was slightly lifted off his shoulders _ —  _ but not completely. 

It was very easy to buy into the generic idea of ‘just be yourself!’ Roderich was reluctant to do so, though. 

_ It’s certainly not an excuse to make a fool out of yourself, but— _

“Edelstein?  _ Tu vas bien? _ ”

“Yes,” Roderich responded, still a little distracted. “I’m just… thinking about something.” 

_ Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to loosen up a bit. _

“ _ Danse Bacchanale,  _ from  _ Samson et Dalila. _ ” Mr. Vargas held up the score like it was going to become the next king of Pride Rock. “Has anyone ever heard of it?”

Gilbert couldn’t control his surprise _ — _ his jaw hung open so wide that people could probably see that jiggly thing at the back of his throat. 

Another coincidence. 

Who would have thought? 

_ First, it was meeting Liz, and now this?  _

_ The HetaTube algorithm has gotta be psychic or something! _

Gilbert’s hand shot up quickly. “I have!” he shouted, proud that he was the only one to be able to answer. 

Or so he thought. 

What Gilbert didn’t immediately notice was that another person’s hand was raised, though it wasn’t quite as obvious. 

And that hand was attached to an arm, which was attached to the body belonging to none other than Roderich Edelstein. 

_ He knows, too?  _

Gilbert wondered if Roderich found the song in his HetaTube recommended section, just like how he did. 

_ But maybe it’s fate or something magical and mysterious and romantic like that! _

While Gilbert would’ve liked to deliberate the latter, the former seemed much more likely. 

_ Eh, even so, that’s still pretty awesome!  _

_ What if we both listened to it at the same time?  _

_ Like, the music was connecting or souls!  _

_ That’s still romantic, right? _

_ And… probably too good to be true.  _

Gilbert deflated a little once the initial amazement wore off. His mind began producing more and more practical explanations for the coincidence, like the possibility that Roderich had heard or played the piece before. 

_ He did say he was part of the Vienna Chamber, didn’t he?  _

Gilbert stole another glance at the violinist, noticing something odd. Roderich’s eyes were darting all over the place, his hands clenching and unclenching like he had something to hide. 

Judging by the almost-smile on the other man’s delicate face, Gilbert presumed it was a good thing. 

Meanwhile, Vargas looked rather disappointed. 

“Come on. Only two?” he asked the group. Nobody responded, though a few whispers demanding ‘ _ what the hell is a Bacchanale?’  _ were audible if you listened close enough. 

“Okay then. Has anyone ever heard of  _ Danse Macabre _ ?” Vargas inquired. 

This time, a chorus of ‘mhmms’ could be heard and nods could be seen. 

“Very interesting. Now, let me tell you something: both were created by the same composer. Camille Saint-Saëns.” Vargas put down the score. “You may be wondering why this matters, yes?”

“God, what’s his obsession with leading questions?” Gilbert heard someone ask _ — _ judging by the accent and frustrated tone, it was probably Lovino. 

Vargas chuckled at the remark. “No need to get hostile! But, on the off-chance that you actually  _ were  _ wondering, I’ll give it to you straight.” 

The room grew silent (or as close as it could get to silence considering how eccentric the musicians of the Paris Philharmonic could be at times.) 

“Between now and the end of November, every last one of us will have to put in our entire minds, hearts, and souls and make this music our own,” Vargas declared. 

_ Sounds like Purple Prose _ , Gilbert thought with a smirk.  _ I can’t make sense of it.  _

“And if that explanation was too flowery for you, allow me to be blunter.” The conductor paused, leaving room for just enough suspense. “Say goodbye to  _ Allegretto _ . We will be performing  _ Danse Bacchanale  _ at our next concert.”

━━━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━━

For once, Gilbert didn’t leave the  _ Château  _ exhausted.

Quite the opposite, actually. 

The orchestra had gone through its first run of  _ Danse Bacchanale _ . Though it wasn’t easy by any stretch of the imagination, playing the piece was challenging in a fun way. 

Gilbert was pretty intimidated when he received the sheet music, at first. There were bars upon bars of sixteenths and quick articulations _ — _ quick and very easy to miss. 

Still, Gilbert was determined to perfect it. 

_ This has gotta be the best goddamn music that the audience has ever heard.  _

_ Danse Bacchanale  _ was a beautiful piece, and Gilbert had every intent to convey that. Hell, he would scream it out to the world if they would listen. 

But not with words. 

With music. 

Somehow, the rehearsal had managed to invigorate him _ — _ such a stark contrast between the slow, headache-inducing session that morning. 

“So, whaddya think? About Bacchanale?” Alfred asked, snapping Gilbert out of his thoughts. 

“I think it’s awesome,” Gilbert responded earnestly. “You?”

“Not gonna lie, it’s kind of slow at the beginning. But y’know, the crescendo around 50 was pretty cool!” Alfred pouted. “Even though we never got the melody.”

Gilbert should’ve felt a little bad for Alfred, but he simply couldn’t bring himself to. After all, trumpets got the melody in basically every other piece (particularly in marches.) _Danse Bacchanale_ , however, was **very** flute and violin-centric. 

“Kesesese, sucks to suck!” Gilbert stuck his tongue out and cackled obnoxiously. 

“Whatever, I don’t even care anyway!” Alfred insisted. “So, what’re you waiting for?” he asked in an attempt to change the subject. 

Gilbert stared out at the sky painted in red and orange, a testament to the setting sun. It was getting late. “My little brother,” he said. “He’s got a license, I don’t.” 

“Huh.” Alfred squinted at the driveway, his eyes lighting up after noticing a slightly-dented Prius among the other cars. “Oh, there’s my ride, nice talkin’ to ya!” 

Gilbert raised an eyebrow, wondering why someone like Alfred would drive anything that wasn’t a bright-red convertible. “Toyota?”

“It’s Artie’s, not mine.” Alfred rolled his eyes, a slight blush forming on his face. “Apparently it’s more important for a car to be ‘reliable,’ according to that old man.” 

“Mhmm.” Gilbert waved Alfred goodbye, watching his cowlick bob up and down as he ran towards the car. 

_ Another couple. So, that makes three.  _

_ Four, if I count Edelstein and his wife.  _ _   
_ _ But judging their relationship now,  _ **_should_ ** _ it count?  _

Gilbert felt a vibration from inside his pocket. He quickly slipped out his phone and found a new text from Ludwig. 

* * *

L:  _ I’m at the entrance _

L:  _ Look up from your phone _

* * *

Gilbert looked up from his phone briefly.

* * *

L:  _ To the right _

* * *

Gilbert looked to the right.

* * *

L:  _ My right, dummkopf! _

* * *

Gilbert groaned.  _ I’m probably the only person in the world who lets his younger brother push him around like that.  _

Following Ludwig’s newest command, Gilbert looked to his left, which was Ludwig’s right. Sure enough, there it was: a shiny BMW with an annoyed-looking younger brother in the driver’s seat. 

Gilbert flung open the door. 

“Took you long enough,” Ludwig grumbled. 

“Awesome takes time, you know.” 

━━━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━━

“ _ E _ …  _ Émeraude  _ drive, right?” Ludwig asked, butchering the French word completely. 

“ _ Ja. _ ” Gilbert glanced at Elizaveta’s message once again, just to be sure. “6059.”

“6059, 6059, 6059…” Ludwig muttered to himself as he slowly continued down the street. 

“Hey, I think that’s the one!” Gilbert pointed to the large house at the tip of the cul-de-sac, the shiny metal plate near the door reading 6059. 

“So it seems.” Ludwig pulled over to the kerb, stopping right in front of the front walk. “Try not to make too big of a fool of yourself in front of her.”

“No idea what you’re talking about,  _ bruder _ . Besides, my awesomeness cannot be repressed!”

Ludwig sighed. “Just don’t break anything.” 

Gilbert opened the car door, stepping out. “Do laws count?”

“Of course they _ — _ ”

_ SLAM!  _ Gilbert shut the door forcefully, interrupting what would have been another lecture from his younger brother. 

_ I’ll count that as a ‘no.’ _

Though he couldn’t hear what Ludwig was saying, Gilbert assumed he was just mumbling to himself in disapproval again as he drove off. 

Gilbert stared at the house _ — _ would mansion be a better word to describe it?

_ It’s… big.  _

Suddenly, he felt so small.

_ What if she changed?  _

The question felt stupid. 

_ Well, of course, she's changed. That’s what humans do.  _

_ But… _

Gilbert looked down at the clothes he was wearing: a black band t-shirt and distressed jeans. 

_ Should I have worn something fancier?  _

_ I could’ve borrowed one of those super expensive tuxedos from Francis… _

He thought for a few moments.

_ Nah.  _

_ Liz isn’t the type of person to care about that shit.  _

Gaining new confidence after his little internal monologue, Gilbert marched over to the door, his gait emanating with pride. 

He reached up and rang the doorbell once. 

Nothing. 

He rang twice. 

Nothing. 

His conviction was fading. Fast. 

Gilbert sucked in a breath, praying to every god in existence that Elizaveta didn’t set him up and this wasn’t just a really cruel joke. 

He rang thrice. 

The door opened. 

“You’re here.” 

Gilbert nodded at Elizaveta, throwing in a trademark smirk for good measure. “I am.” 

Nobody said anything for some time. The silence left the pair swimming in old and hazy memories. 

Finally, Elizaveta spoke up. 

“Get in here, dumbass. There’s a lot to catch up on.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, here's another chapter. It's slightly longer than the last one, so I hope you liked it!  
> The Netherlands made a cameo, here. Could you tell who it was? I've always wondered what would happen if two penny-pinchers like Austria and the Netherlands got into a little argument, so there it was!  
> There's implied USUK in here. I'm actually planning on writing another fic to go with this one (like a prequel type thing) focusing on USUK, so once I'm finished up with some of my incomplete fics, I'll be on that.   
> I know I've been drawing this out for so long, but I promise Austria and Prussia will meet in the next chapter! This is (kind of) a slow-burn, so that might have something to do with it.   
> Any PruHun you see here is 100% platonic, by the way.   
> I'm also trying to learn French, and I pride myself in being able to say that I didn't use Google Translate for some of France's dialogue! It's all very basic phrases and words, so maybe there's not too much to brag about there (^-^;)  
> Finally, I'd like to ask a quick favor from you. **PLEASE COMMENT/REVIEW! It means a lot, and it will help me keep motivated to continue this story! You've probably heard this a lot, but one comment really can go a long way!**  
>  Now, here are some music links:   
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vjRiLKSPbqc   
> https://open.spotify.com/album/0O33XKNb7M9AMlsYDJTMLE?highlight=spotify:track:1vgInU9qUZYSW0VT9TJuT6


	11. Interlude: Waking Providence, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sweet little bonding moment gets interrupted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Danse Bacchanale, by Saint-Saens: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vjRiLKSPbqc 

“You’re here.” 

“I am.” 

“Get in here, dumbass. There’s a lot to catch up on.” 

An overwhelming feeling of warmth rushed to Gilbert’s heart, soothing his soul. He wondered if it was a similar feeling to one a castaway would have felt after seeing a boat in the distance. 

_ Hope _ , he thought as he entered Elizaveta’s home, glad that he was able to pinpoint it.  _ It’s hope.  _

“So, you’re…” Elizaveta gestured awkwardly to the instrument case in Gilbert’s right hand. “...a musician, now.” 

Gilbert looked down at the case, somewhat surprised with himself. He meant to leave it in the car. But, at that point, it was basically attached. Just another part of him. “ _ Ja.  _ First flute, first chair!” 

Elizaveta smiled earnestly. “Wow. You ... you really have something here.”

The obvious answer was yes, of course. Of course, Gilbert had something. He was a top flutist at one of Paris’s greatest orchestras of all time! He had a younger brother who cared about him, (though Ludwig would never explicitly say so) two best friends that enjoyed mischief and music as much as he did, and more than enough money to boot. 

But there was a not-so-obvious answer as well. 

Of course, Gilbert  _ had  _ something, but he was missing something, too. 

He lived in the city of love, but had no lover. 

_ Pretty damn sad, if you ask me.  _

But he didn’t really feel like explaining all this to Elizaveta. So, he opted for a more cheeky, neutral sort-of answer—so neutral, in fact, that Baasch would be jealous. 

“Maybe.” 

Elizaveta chuckled good-humouredly and led her guest deeper into the house.

En route, Gilbert managed to sneak a glance (okay, fine,  _ stare _ ) at the parlor. It was a stylish little area, designed a little differently than the rest of the place. 

In the center sat a grand Bösendorfer piano in its shiny glory, with all ninety-seven keys displayed proudly for all to see. A single sheet of music sat on the stand, slightly yellowed and worn by time. 

Gilbert couldn’t catch the title, but the piece certainly looked complicated. 

There was another detail that would’ve gone unnoticed by most, though it couldn’t escape Gilbert’s attentive gaze. 

A small Austrian flag pinned to the back wall. 

━━━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━━

“Gil?”

“Yeah?”

“Let me get one thing out of the way first.” Elizaveta sighed and tucked a strand of brown hair that had managed to slip past her flower hair clip behind her ear. “About dinner— I know I invited you—but I...I don’t really know how to cook.” 

Gilbert shrugged. “And?”

“I can do Torte,  _ Gerbeaud _ ,  _ Palacsinta _ —basically any dessert. But anything else?” She chuckled weakly. “Hopeless.”

“Hey, that’s fine,” Gilbert reassured. “Not everyone’s a five-star chef.” 

“I know… but…” Elizaveta’s look grew hopeful. “You wouldn’t happen to be a culinary expert, would you?”

“Like  _ hell  _ I am!” He snorted. “But I  _ do  _ know this guy called Arthur. He’s a genius in the kitchen, y’know.” 

“Really?”

“Nope,” Gilbert responded, letting the sarcasm fall. “Kirkland’s literally Gordon Ramsey’s worst nightmare.” He brought his voice down a couple of notches until it was barely a whisper and made his eyes wide, feigning worry. “ _ Never  _ accept a scone from him.  _ Ever. _ ” He looked to his right and left as if there were people watching. “Blonde hair, green eyes, and these huge eyebrows that make him look kind of like a Shiba Inu. Know who to look out for, got it?”

Elizaveta flashed a bemused smile. “Got it.” 

Nobody said anything for a few moments. Gilbert leaned on the granite countertop, wondering who’d be brave enough to break the ice first. 

Evidently, it was her. 

“So, uh… what do we do now?”

“Hm. Well, I’ve got another friend from the Paris Phil. He’s French and kind of a pervert—”

Elizaveta’s fingers twitched instinctively, wanting to wrap themselves around the handle of her trusty frying pan. She absolutely  _ despised  _ those perverted playboy types. They had no grasp of basic human decency, whatsoever!

“—but he’s pretty good when it comes to this kind of stuff.” Gilbert clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “It’s too bad, though. Knowing him, he’s probably out on the town initiating a drunken revel.”

Elizaveta visibly deflated a little, which was bad news. The Hungarian was practically  _ known  _ for not letting the little things get to her, so this shortcoming must not have been so little—not in her eyes, anyway. 

“H-hey, I’m sure I can still figure something out!” Gilbert added quickly. “Like, uh…” He searched his brain for a second until a certain recipe surfaced. “Pancakes!”

“Pancakes?”

_ “Ja!”  _

And, for once, Gilbert wasn’t lying. A certain Canadian had taught him how to make pancakes before. Remembering Matthew made him feel a little awkward, but he ignored it. 

“It’s 7:00 in the evening, Gil,” Elizaveta pointed out. 

“So? Pancakes are good any time of the day! Just like  _ wurst _ ! Or beer! Or—”

Elizaveta cut him off with a wave of her hand. “Yeah, yeah, pancakes are awesome. I get it.” 

“Let’s get to it, then!” Gilbert grinned and pumped his fist into the air enthusiastically. “We’re gonna need flour, sugar, and— oh, right! When’s your man coming back?”

_ Just curious, that’s all! _

“Beilschmidt, if you wanted to hook up with him, you could’ve just said so earlier.” 

_ GOTTVERDAMMT, LIZ! That’s not what I meant!!! _

This statement was immediately met by a series of loud and somewhat-panicked denials from Gilbert. 

“Okay, honestly?” Elizaveta shrugged. “I’ve got no clue.” 

“Huh.” 

Gilbert couldn’t help but notice just how odd Elizaveta’s dynamic with her husband was. Most couples would at least have  _ some  _ idea of each other's schedules, but apparently, these two were the exception. 

“He’s probably gotten lost again,” Elizaveta said tiredly as she flung open a cupboard and took out a bag of flour. “Someone should really put a GPS tracker on that man… and  _ don’t even get me started  _ on that trip to the aquarium!” 

Elizaveta continued to gripe about her everyday life after moving to Paris. At one point, she made an absolutely  _ hilarious  _ impression of what could only be described as a vampire wannabe and Gilbert couldn’t hold back his chuckles. 

Elizaveta set down a large mixing bowl on the countertop “Seriously, I’m starting to wonder if that boy was dropped on the head when he was a baby. You remember him, right?”

“Who wouldn’t?” Gilbert carefully slid a carton of eggs out from the fridge. “But all-in-all, Popescu really isn't half bad. Some of the pranks we pulled in senior year were  _ priceless _ , you should’ve seen ‘em!” 

“Not so priceless when  _ you’re _ the one being pranked,” Elizaveta hissed, deadpan. 

“Aw, c’mon. It’s all in good fun! Besides, when Vlad’s not trying to summon demons with his creepy magic friends, he’s damn good on the viola.” 

“Mhmm, whatever you say.” 

Gilbert stood there and stared at the ingredients, all laid out in a neat little row. “You don’t know how to cook and you’re already this prepared?”   
“Idiot! I never said I couldn’t  _ bake _ !” Elizaveta snapped. “But my husband does spend a lot more time here than I, making tiny little cakes and such.”

Gilbert’s heart fluttered. 

_ Tiny little cakes?  _

_ He  _ can’t  _ be straight! _

_ I mean, not that it really matters or anything! This guy’s a complete stranger to me! _

_ A complete stranger.  _

So, the two washed their hands and carried on with their pancake-making adventure. Gilbert tore open the flour, measured out 1 ½ cups precisely, and poured it into the bowl. Meanwhile, Elizaveta did the same with the sugar, though she used 3 tablespoons instead. 

Finally, it was time for Gilbert’s favorite part: the eggs. Because breaking stuff was awesome. 

“Yo, Liz, check this out!” Gilbert’s grin could’ve been perceived as a little on the maniacal side, but he could care less. He knocked the egg against the side of the bowl until a crack formed then split open the shell completely. 

Most of the golden-yellow yolk slid right out of the shell, landing in the bowl with a nice little  _ plop.  _ However, some of the remaining liquid was a little more difficult to get rid of. 

“ _ Mein Gott!  _ There’s a bunch of weird slimy shit all over my fingers!” A piece of silver-white hair fell in front of Gilbert’s face, partially obscuring his line of vision. Unfortunately, he couldn’t push it out of the way without risking getting egg yolk in his hair. 

Elizaveta cackled at the scene—because,  _ really _ , who wouldn’t? “Don’t worry, I’ve got the perfect solution!”

Much to Gilbert’s dismay, the Hungarian woman ran off to another room, leaving him abandoned in the kitchen with sticky yellow-ish liquid dripping from his fingertips. 

Elizaveta eventually returned, with a small object in hand. Grinning to herself, she slid the object into Gilbert’s hair, pushing the stray lock out of the way. 

Gilbert caught sight of his own reflection in the polished stainless steel refrigerator. Sitting proudly in his hair was a sparkly hair clip in a bright yellow shade that could rival the color of Gilbird’s feathers. 

Gilbert rolled his eyes as he washed the mess off his fingers but didn’t bother removing the clip. It got the hair out of his face and frankly, looked pretty damn awesome, too. 

_ Whatever. I can make anything look awesome! _

And with his newly-obtained accessory, Gilbert continued to work on the pancake batter until it looked perfect.

“Is it done?” Elizaveta asked. 

“Yep!” Gilbert answered triumphantly, all his attention dedicated to staring into the bowl at their masterpiece. 

“Hey.”

Gilbert looked up, only to quickly realize that doing so was a big mistake. 

_ BOOP!  _ Elizaveta smeared a large dollop of batter right onto his nose, smirking as she had just pulled off one of the greatest schemes in history. 

“What’s the matter, Gil? I thought you liked pranks!” 

“Only when  _ I’m  _ the one playing them!” 

Elizaveta continued to giggle as Gilbert continued to sulk, wondering how he let her pull that one over him. 

Once the laughter subsided, Elizaveta glanced at the now-empty roll of paper towels. 

“We’re out,” Gilbert commented. 

“It’s fine. There’s another roll in the powder room if I’m not mistaken.” Elizaveta pointed down the hall. “Right across the parlor, second door.” 

“Wow, how gracious of you!” Gilbert drawled before trudging out of the kitchen. 

If it wasn’t obvious then, it certainly was now. 

Elizaveta’s house was humongous; perhaps even more so from the inside, if that was even possible. 

Every door he passed looked the same, it was like he was in a labyrinth. 

There was, however, one room that stood out. The parlor, with its giant Bösendorfer and violins and—

_ Oh, there it is! _

Gilbert placed his hand on the doorknob, ready to twist it. 

Suddenly, he was interrupted by the sound of keys in the front door. 

_ Gott, what do I do? _

_ Should I just… _

The door came open. 

Gilbert found himself staring at a man of average height, brown hair, violet eyes…

He really didn’t know what to say. 

Thankfully, the other man spoke up first. 

“Beilschmidt?”

“Edelstein?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, sorry this chapter was kind of short!  
> I believe Prussia canonically likes pancakes, which is kind of a big part of the whole PruCan shipping thing.  
> Also, Austria is canonically afraid of marine animals. So, you could probably imagine what would happen if he were to visit an aquarium of some sort.  
> Gerbeaud and Palacsinta are Hungarian desserts.  
> This chapter—no, probably this entire story—is basically just ellipses abuse. But what’s so wrong with that? Ellipses are pretty good for dramatics, after all…  
> See you next time, folks! **And, as always, PLEASE COMMENT/REVIEW!**


	12. Interlude: Full Circle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _No. It can’t be._
> 
> _It’s not true. I don’t even know him, I don’t even care about him._
> 
> _Not now. Not tomorrow. Not in a few weeks from now._
> 
> _Never._

Roderich closed the taxi door shut, a satisfied, tight-lipped smile on his face. As he made his way up the walkway and to the front door, his mind couldn’t help but wander towards the events of the Paris Philharmonic’s latest rehearsal. 

_ He actually listened to me. He actually listened to my suggestion.  _

When Roderich had brought up  _ Danse Bacchanale  _ (he’d never even alluded to the possibility of using the piece for the concert, not even once,) he technically wasn’t even an official member of the orchestra yet. He was merely a prospect. Or, if a more negative connotation were to be used instead: a wannabe. 

_ Not anymore. I’m the concertmaster, now! _ _   
_ Another burst of pride swelled up in his chest. It felt warm and nice, reminding him of that first night he spent with Elizaveta after the concert in Vienna that felt like a lifetime ago. That first night, before things began to fall apart…

Suddenly, Roderich didn’t feel so proud anymore. 

_ I still haven’t apologized… frankly, I don’t even remember what I did anymore. But if it makes her stop holding that god-forsaken grudge… _

His grip on the violin case tightened as he realized he was at yet another crossroads. 

_ I have to tell her about the Paris Philharmonic. She already knows I’ve… ‘auditioned,’ but everything else… _

When it all boiled down to it, this was a decision between his wife and his career. His talent. His joy. 

A never-ending conflict between Love and Music. 

Roderich was so confused and exasperated with it all. 

Why did he need to choose just one? 

Why couldn’t he have both? 

There was a clear difference between romantic passion and the passion he had for music. No doubt. It was like they were two different worlds entirely. 

And they would never,  _ ever _ coincide. 

That was the harsh truth, and he had to accept it whether he liked it or not. 

Although, that didn’t make the decision any easier. 

Roderich eventually reached the door. Somehow… the place felt so foreign to him. But why? It  _ was _ his house. 

But was it really  _ his _ in the way that music was? 

He rubbed his temples, feeling the beginnings of a headache coming on. 

_ Perhaps I’m just reading into things too much.  _

Roderich finally decided to bite the bullet and open the door. 

Or, at least he  _ tried  _ to open the door, anyway. 

It was locked. Naturally. 

Roderich bit his lip, holding back a series of German swears that he would never say in the presence of others. 

He forgot his key. 

What a fantastic cap on the evening!

On top of being hopeless with directions and a bit of a priss, Roderich Edelstein had dementia, too. Apparently. 

“ _ Gott _ …” He searched around his pockets for a few moments until remembering one very important piece of information. 

_ I put the keys in my case! _

Breathing a sigh of relief, Roderich opened his violin case and brought out his keys. 

While he was sure it wouldn’t be the end of the world if he didn’t have his keys, he still had his dignity, if anything at all.

And ringing the doorbell to his own home would all but shatter that. 

The door came open with a slight creak. Roderich took one step inside, not bothering to announce his presence. 

He looked up. 

_ … what? _

_ What is he… why is he… _

Millions of thoughts were swimming around in his mind like it was some aquarium at maximum capacity. 

What exactly was he supposed to say in this sort of situation?

The question repeated itself over and over and over again, but the answer wasn’t any more clear. 

But between both of them, it was clear that  _ someone  _ had to say  _ something.  _

And so, Roderich took it upon himself to be that someone. 

“Beilschmidt?"

It was really him. What’s-his-name Beilschmidt. Although it certainly wasn’t that Roderich had forgotten his first name, (he had a feeling that he wouldn’t be able to forget anyway) but rather that he just didn’t know what it was. 

But introductions seemed downright trivial at that moment. 

“Edelstein?”

Roderich’s heart fluttered slightly, for reasons unknown. 

Okay, maybe not  _ completely  _ unknown. 

Was it that an almost-stranger was standing in his foyer? Was it that this stranger was a little on the good-looking side? 

Or, was it that this particular good-looking, almost-stranger had actually remembered his name? 

But there wasn’t much time to consider the options. 

“W-What are you doing here?” Roderich managed to say. He also had the strong urge to inquire about the batter on Beilschmidt’s nose, but ultimately decided against it. 

Unintentionally, Roderich’s eyes flickered to the flash of yellow among the nest of silvery-white on the other man’s head.

_ Is that one of Elizaveta’s hair accessories? _

If it had been anyone else, Roderich would’ve rolled his eyes and scoffed at the hair clip. But the thought of doing so in this particular instance never crossed his mind. 

_ If anything… it’s actually quite endearing. In a… different way.  _

_ But now is not the time! Attractive or not, he’s still an intruder!  _

_ And besides, there’s a high chance he isn’t like…  _ that. 

“Uh… I could ask you the same thing!” Beilschmidt shot back. 

_ Nevermind. He’s an idiot. _

**_A handsome idiot_ ** _ ,  _ a voice in his head said.  Roderich promptly told that voice to shut up. 

But this time, Roderich actually  _ did  _ roll his eyes. And scoff. The whole number. 

“I  _ live  _ here.” 

Beilschmidt just stood there and blinked. “Oh. Haha. Right.” He scratched the back of his neck, obviously more than just a little embarrassed. 

The sound of footsteps grew louder and louder until Elizaveta appeared right in the doorway. 

“You two…” She looked from Beilschmidt to Roderich, then back again. “You two know each other?”

Roderich and Beilschmidt exchanged glances. 

“Yes,” Roderich said, just as Beilschmidt answered with “No.” 

“Well, what is it, then?” Elizaveta wondered aloud. 

“It’s… complicated,” Gilbert offered as an answer. 

“Yes,” Roderich added. “Complicated.”

It wasn’t like Roderich was embarrassed about the truth. Roderich just didn’t  _ know  _ the truth. 

One could say they didn’t know each other at all. After all, they’d never been formally introduced, nor had they ever actually had a formal conversation. 

However, one could also say they knew each other well. Through stolen glances and discrete winks and… 

Of course. That night at  _ The Forest Alcove.  _ Things were just coming full circle, weren’t they? 

“I see. But, just in case…” Elizaveta pointed to Gilbert. “Roderich, this is Gilbert. We were friends back in high school, and I invited him over to catch up.” She pointed to Roderich. “Gilbert, this is Roderich. We’ve been married for a little less than a year, now.” 

“Awesome,” Gilbert said as he extended his left hand. “Nice to meet ya, Mr. Piano Man.” 

Roderich stared at the other man’s hand for a few seconds.  _ Doesn’t he know he’s supposed to use his right hand? _

_ Oh, well.  _ Roderich accepted the handshake, but couldn’t help but notice that Gilbert reminded him of himself, in an abstract sort of way. 

Being left-handed, Roderich always used to do the same thing. 

Until the habit was forcefully broken at his father’s command, that is. 

_ One more thing… _

_ ‘Piano man?!’ _

“I have a name, you know,” Roderich said, the statement sounding a little more like a reprimand than anything else. 

“Do you?” Gilbert flashed a lopsided smirk. It made him look so mischievous. So… boy-ish.

Roderich really couldn’t help but stare… only a little…

“Anyway!” Elizaveta spun on her heel, nonverbally inviting them to follow her. “Gilbert and I were making pancakes for dinner before you came. The batter’s already done, so all we need to do now is fry them.” 

_ Pancakes for dinner?  _

Lagging a little behind the other two (he had never been the fastest walker,) Roderich was able to look at the back of Gilbert’s head discreetly. 

_ He certainly is… interesting,  _ Roderich concluded. Making that assumption wasn’t too far of a stretch, what with the hair clip, pancakes, and, well, overall personality. 

Gilbert seemed like the type of guy Roderich would  _ never  _ ordinarily approach in any other setting, let alone make friends with. 

If it were a high school setting, their social circles couldn’t be any further apart. 

Was  _ that  _ what made him so interesting to Roderich?

Either way… it was quite embarrassing. He was acting like a teenage girl in a cliche romance novel, fawning over some random ‘bad boy’ she had just met. 

_ It wouldn’t hurt to learn more about him, though.  _

_ B-But solely for diplomatic purposes! I wouldn’t want to be on shaky terms with someone I’m going to be interacting with on the daily.  _

_ Especially after what Vargas said about how the violins and flutes would have to work together on Danse Bacchanale. _

They had reached the kitchen. Roderich was vaguely aware that Gilbert had stopped by the bathroom somewhere along the line and then re-emerged with the pancake batter wiped clean off his nose. 

Roderich made brief eye contact with Elizaveta, who was leaning on the island. 

Technically, they had never made up after their argument the previous night.

Elizaveta gave him a look that practically screamed ‘ _ we’ll talk about it later _ .’ 

Roderich nodded. He didn’t want to make a big scene, especially with the presence of, well…  _ him.  _

Gilbert cleared his throat loudly. “Hey, uh. I’ll just—” He jabbed his thumb at the bowl of batter sitting on the countertop. “You know.” 

“Do you need any help?” Elizaveta asked. 

“Nah,” Gilbert replied with a shake of his head. “Besides, do you even  _ know  _ how to flip ‘em properly?”

“I do,” Elizaveta answered, obviously lying. 

“You don’t.”

“O-Of course I do!”

Gilbert sighed and shook his head, feigning disappointment. “Damn, Liz. All that training with your frying pan and you don’t even know how to use it for its intended purpose.”    
Elizaveta rolled his eyes and gave Gilbert a light punch on the shoulder. “ _ Whatever. _ ” 

As he watched the exchange, Roderich had the strangest of feelings. Like he was a third-wheel in some way, which was especially odd considering that he was _ literally  _ Elizaveta’s  _ husband _ . 

What was wrong with him? Shouldn’t Roderich have been jealous of Gilbert for having such a close relationship with Elizaveta?

Then why…  _ Why _ was it  **_the other way around?!_ **

_ No. It can’t be.  _

_ It’s not true. I don’t even know him, I don’t even care about him.  _

_ Not now. Not tomorrow. Not in a few weeks from now.  _

_ Never.  _

**_Never say never,_ ** that same voice in his head from earlier said. 

Roderich decided to just keep his mouth shut. Apparently, Gilbert was taking a similar approach, too; only speaking when directly prompted to. It seemed rather uncharacteristic of him, though. 

A generic ringtone cut through the silence like a blade. 

Elizaveta slipped her phone out of her pocket and immediately groaned, running a tired hand through her hair. “ _ Eduard _ _.  _ You’ve got to be kidding me.” She answered the call (albeit, very begrudgingly) and practically dashed out of the kitchen. 

Not bothering to ask why Elizaveta had such low regard for her boss (it was common knowledge at that point,) Roderich bit his lip. 

They were alone. Together.

God, why was this so awkward? 

Gilbert poured some batter onto the pan carefully, his other hand clenched tight. Roderich couldn’t imagine what he was thinking. Although, in his defense, Gilbert struck him as the unpredictable type. Like no one could really tell what was on his mind at any given moment, unless he wanted them to. 

“So… how long have you known Elizaveta?” Roderich asked after what felt like an eternity of silence. 

“Basically since we were born,” Gilbert responded. “But you don’t have to worry. I’ll make sure to get her home by 10:00 PM, sir.”

Roderich frowned. 

Did he really sound like a concerned father meeting his daughter’s middle school boyfriend for the first time?

_ If so, it certainly wasn’t my intention to come off in that way! _

“Oh,” Roderich said plainly. “That’s interesting. I… suppose.” 

Gilbert flipped the pancake onto the other side then turned around. “Wanna know something about me?”

“I’m not necessarily against it.” 

“Okay, then.” Gilbert abandoned the spatula, his unnaturally-red eyes flickering with an unknown emotion. “I don’t really like small-talk.”

Roderich raised one eyebrow. Just what exactly was Gilbert trying to do, here? “I can’t say I disagree. However, it’s not like there’s any pressing matter up for discussion, right now.”

“Sure there is!” Gilbert insisted. “Like… you remember yesterday, right?”

How could he forget? After all, it felt like Roderich was constantly being reminded of it at every waking moment. 

“Y-Yes.” 

“Whatever I said… I meant it,” Gilbert said earnestly. “Honest.” 

“Erm, about that —” Roderich started, his words coming out all stilted and uneven. “Why did you… you know…”

Strangely enough, he received no immediate response from Gilbert. 

_ Maybe… he doesn’t know either? _

Eventually, Gilbert spoke up, catching Roderich very off-guard with his response. “Simple. I just call ‘em as I see ‘em.”

_ What is that supposed to mean?! _

The tempo of his heartbeat increased.  _ Louder, faster, harder.  _ Roderich could only hope it wasn’t audible. 

“Oh, speaking of which!” Gilbert went back to his business, sliding a pancake off the pan and plopping it onto a plate. “What was the verdict?”

_ He must be talking about the audition. If you could even call it that. _

Roderich contemplated all the possible ways he could answer Gilbert’s question without sounding like an arrogant prick. 

Soon, he settled on the most basic response possible.

“First chair.” 

Gilbert’s eyes widened. “First violin?”

“Yes.” 

“Holy shit, that’s awesome!” Gilbert gushed, a wide grin on his face. “Even better? Natalya’s going to be  _ pissed. _ ” 

It took every ounce of self-control in Roderich’s body to prevent a blush from forming on his face. But only because of the glowing praise! It had absolutely nothing to do with the person who was delivering that praise, nothing whatsoever! 

“T-Thank you,” Roderich said. “But Natalya being upset doesn’t necessarily sound like a good thing…” 

Gilbert chuckled. “So it seems. Really, Natalya isn’t  _ that  _ bad. She’s just a little... feisty.”

“Somehow I feel like you’re withholding a few very important details.” 

“Okay, well, she also has a knife strapped to her leg. But even if she  _ does  _ try chopping your dick off, there’ll be plenty of witnesses to back you up in court. There’s basically nothing to worry about!” 

Roderich frowned and crossed his arms over his chest. “...must you use such vulgar vocabulary?” 

“Whatever, mom,” Gilbert replied teasingly. 

Roderich sighed. “How immature.” 

As obnoxious as it was, he had a feeling he wouldn’t be able to avoid Gilbert. Or his colorful language. 

“Ouch!” Gilbert held his hand over his heart and winced dramatically. “You wound me!” 

“So, how are you two getting along?” Elizaveta asked as she re-entered the kitchen, appearing seemingly out of nowhere. 

Roderich and Gilbert exchanged glances. 

“Oh, just fantastically.” 

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, hey, Gil and Rod actually interact here!   
> All jokes aside, I hope you enjoyed this chapter!   
> **Please review/comment! It means a lot**
> 
> (And on a different note, I believe Belarus actually threatened to chop Denmark's... you know... in the English dub of Halloween special episode. I just felt like that was an important detail.)


End file.
